Enigmatic Darkness
by milegre
Summary: A slow, dark, tragic tale of love and loss.
1. Hauntings

**A/N - The only disclaimer I'll have in this story. I don't own any of the POTO characters or concepts. All original stuff IS mine.**

**This is a prologue to my story Twisted Fate. It picks up two years after the fire, and deals with what happens next.**

**Please READ and if you read, please review.**

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Lithe, sinewy muscles ached as slender digits caressed downwards in a firm stroke. The lukewarm water that both were submerged in did little to ease the pain. The curve of that long leg finally lifted, rounded heel finding purchase upon the edge of the porcelain tub. An act of defeat. Only rest, and further strain would ease the discomfort. The girl within the water released a long sigh and allowed her eyes to flutter closed as well. It had been a long day. Training for a new opera was always exhausting, but Emina had been away for some months and her once strong muscles had softened a bit, once released from the tortuous hours of dance. Having just returned, she found preparation both exhilirating and overwhelming. Squirming in the waters, she attempted to drown all worries. The warmth and comforting embrace soon lulled her into reverie, the almost dream-like state inducing memories from the past. 

Crimson silk provided little shelter for the small girl who huddled fearfully amongst the litter of pillows and emptied bottles. The tent she had been banished to was dim, and a pungent odor filled the air. The sound of carnival filled the air outdoors, and she could hear people laughing, jeering, and foul profanities from men who had imbibed far too much liquor. Of course, the ever present sound of labored breathing lingered just outside the entrance, an ever-present warning that any attempt to escape would be futile. Dark curls were touseled and disheveled, and her pristine features were marred with bruises. Even the pretty ruby of her lips were swollen from an earlier assault. Scarcely thirteen, the pitiful girl within waited with a certain dread. Finally, her worst dreams were realized for at least the seventh time that night. The sound of coins dropping into a greedy palm preluded the lifting of the flap. A man ducked to enter, the stumble that followed confirming his obvious intoxication. As he pushed up to hands and knees and began to crawl toward her on the pillows, his lips curled into a hungry sneer - and the look in his eyes was enough to make her gasp. Then brilliant orbs of shimmering brown squinted closed, tightly, against the image - replacing them with another. His face. So pitiful and handsome and gruesome all at once.

With a sudden start, Emina sat up quickly, sloshing water out of the tub. It was cool now, and gooseflesh was prominent upon her arms. Her eyes snapped open, and she gasped for air.

"Really, this wasn't entirely part of the deal. You have your own room in which to nap!" Chided a female voice, which had just entered.

Emina glanced up. The auburn-headed beauty who came into vision through teary eyes was obviously not happy.

"We bartered, yes, but only for a bath. Now shoo!" The soprano ushered with some distaste. Emina arose immediately, and reached for a robe hanging nearby. The dream had shaken her, stifling her usual witty reply. Instead, in silence she simply stepped out of the tub.

"Please!" Renee complained, as she turned from Emina. At that, she left the room in a fit of grumbles, the last intelligible words being something about having no shame.

Emina simply shuddered, dried the water from her chilled form, and dressed quickly. Midnight locks still dripped as she reached the door of the lavish suite, reserved of course for the star of the opera. "We're even," her melodious voice chimed, before she stepped out into the hall. Immediately greeting her was the aroma of the evening meal, and the sound of chaos down below. Normally, she dreaded this part of living in the dormitories, but tonight perhaps it would relieve her of the images. Perhaps tonight it would chase away her ghosts.

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Sparkling blue that bordered on an eerie translucence rested upon the recently worn callouses upon his hands. Dirt smudged his fingers and palms, and with cool detachment he viewed it. It had been two years since the Opera above had burned, causing relatively little damage to the caverns below, apart from the obvious looting. His large chair still rested upon the dais, and though the once remarkable velvet that covered it was dirtied and torn in a few places, it still provided quite a bit of comfort. Erik slumped into it with disdain. He had been working to restore his lair to it's original state for weeks now, and it seemed like progress came at a great expense. He had retreated from this place that fateful night, and not returned for many, many months. At first, his visits were short-lived. Glancing about him, there were too many memories. Painful jabs that seemed to prod at a raw, opened wound. He would imagine her stepping from the small gondola, eyes transfixed upon him. Or remember the sweet fragrance that had lingered in his bed for weeks after she had left it. For many months, this torture was too much and he would flee from it. But slowly, the sharp pain became dull, numbing - and eventually, he could scarcely feel should he try. A part of him had died that night, gone with the chocolate curls.

Whatever remained struggled for survival, though, creating a war within himself. Emotion and heart longed to die, but vengeance demanded he live. To repay, to someone, something, the pain and fury he felt. And so he had managed, even as they began to rebuild the Opera inside of Paris (at another location, of course - rumors prevented any restoration of the Opera Populair), to stay within the shadows, teetering upon the brink of madness, until it was safe to return to his hovel for good. And here he was.

A rat scurried across his booted foot, and with a scowl he kicked the creature so hard he could feel the tiny ribs crush. With a splash it landed in the green waters.

"Christine," he tortured himself with her name, little more than a sigh. With that, he lifted himself, and began work again. This place would be as magnificent as it had been once, and when it was - then he would begin to plan his return to the stage of darkness.

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"Emina, please!" The insistent pounding upon her door continued.

"Not right now, Raquel, go away!" She pleaded. Her head pounded and the pillow she gripped atop her face provided no solace. Her best friend continued to rap against the door, and each knock was like a dagger into her mind.

"Oh, alright!" Emina scowled, as she rolled from her small cot and trudged to the door. She swung it open and without even a glance toward her friend, returned to the pillow she was nursing.

"What's the matter with you lately? Since you've returned, you've been so distant? This doesn't have anything to do with a man does it, because you know what..." Raquel droned on, naturally the more talkative of the two. Emina merely held a hand up to silence her, and grumbled.

"No man, Raquel. I just need some privacy." The latter wasn't entirely untrue.

Raquel was smaller than Emina, and more voluptuous. With straight, blonde hair that she usually kept pulled atop her head - she was not unpretty. She invited herself in and nudged the door closed behind her. Settling on the foot of the bed Emina had retreated to, she continued to pry.

"Really then, would you please share with me? I am so worried for you. You never laugh anymore. Are you still frightened about all of that Opera Ghost nonsense? Because the madman is dead, they say." Again, the words flowed without measure from her friend, making Emina wonder what had drawn the two together to begin with.

"Do hush," Emina said roughly, and left it at that.

With a heavy sigh, Raquel relented and simply reached a hand to rest upon the shoulder of her friend. Pale ivory contrasted sharply against the rich bronze of Emina's flesh, a silent reminder that Emina was different.

"I am here if you need me," a more gentle and concerned tone offered. The words were somehow soothing to Emina, and her defenses softened a bit.

"I dream again," she muttered in a voice that was scarcely audible, and in fact there were several moments of silence while Raquel pieced the syllables together in her mind. When she had finally discerned the meaning of the mellifluous little voice, a soft sound of recognition left her.

"Ohhh." And with that, she had little to say for several more moments. Instead, she kneaded the shoulder her hand rested on lightly. What was she to say to Emina? For a while there had been rumors that she was mad. Some had said she claimed to know the Opera Ghost personally, even care for him. Raquel had laughed in scorn at their talk, and strongly defended her friend. But not long after Emina had become sickly, scarcely eating and speaking to no one. When Raquel had pushed her to confide in her, Emina had shared a bit. Nightmares had been plaguing her, of her past, Emina had said - though Raquel wondered if such horrible things could really happen to one person. And they always included _him_.

"Dr. McGaffey is visiting with Renee about a boil upon her toe," Raquel offered, only realizing that it was comical after she had uttered the words, and elicited a soft laugh from Emina. At any rate, though she had not intended it, she was glad to see a slight smile on her friends face. She continued..".. And I'm sure he'd have time to speak with you a moment, if you thought..."

Emina simply groaned her disdain and sat up. She had little sleep and was too exhausted to argue the point thoroughly.

"Raquel, really. Dreams are little to concern the good doctor with. Besides, it would simply fuel the fires - half of the cast think I'm mad as it stands. No, I think this is a problem I shall have to solve myself." The last few words dropped heavily with a note of finality that made the smaller Raquel shudder at their seriousness.

"What was your dream?" She posed so softly, that Emina consented to share.

"I was ten," she began, dropping cloudy eyes to the pillow that delicate fingers toyed with. "It was when I still lived with the man who called himself my father.."

_The thick, musky odor of hay filled her nostrils, and the same girl in her previous dream (only younger) held her breath against the tickling effect it had upon her nose. To sneeze now would be most perilous, and so she bit her lip and clenched tiny fingers around the gift she had brought. Brown eyes squinted, peering out between the crevice made betwixt the two bales of hay she had chosen to hide behind. The light was dim, as it was late and only one lap was still aflame. Ahead she could see the large cage and the two figures huddled in it. The thin boy was silent, as the large, disgusting beast who crouched over him cursed at him and brought the whip down upon his bare back until blood was visible. In the dream, his words were blurred and Emina could not remember what the man was trying to convince the boy to do, probably some silly parlor trick. The beating continued until Emina's body shook with silent sobs. Tears streamed down her dirty face, leaving a trail of clean, pretty flesh behind. When the man had beaten the boy until he moved no longer, his face still in the hay, his drunken anger had been satisfied. He spat down upon the bloody back and then stumbled out, scarcely remembering to lock the steel door behind. Emina waited for many moments after, perhaps an hour, until silence seemed to consume the small camp. She lifted her skirts and attempted to tip-toe around the hay as quietly as possible. The boy did not move. The gift in her hands was nearly forgotten as she reached the bars nearest him, and dropped to her knees._

"_Boy," she cooed in her softest voice, hoping not to anger him. He did not move. Her heart began to beat more quickly, as she feared he was dead._

"_Please," she pleaded softly, more to any gods that might hear her than to him, a soft prayer formed in the simple whisper._

_Finally he stirred, pushing up onto hands and knees with a groan. For a moment, she could see his face. The good side was towards her, and even as a child he held a remarkable appeal. Though young, the structure of his bones and the brilliance of his eyes were enthralling. Emina began to smile, and then his head lifted that he may look at her. Their eyes met, and then hers dropped to the side of his face that had been hidden by shadows. It was horribly disfigured, and for a moment, frightened the small girl. She swallowed the lump that had formed within her throat, gathered all of her courage, and lifted her gaze to his again. _

"_Are you.. hungry?" she murmured, and the spell was broken. Quickly he skittered to the corner furthest from her and donned the dirty sack that had been formed into a sort of mask._

"_Please! Don't be afraid. My name is Emina... I.. brought you some of my dinner."_

_With that, her small hand extended into his caged home, offering a small portion of dried meat. Even with the mask upon his face, his indecision was obvious. He must be starving, Emina thought, even as she watched him struggle within himself._

"_It's yours," she coaxed softly, glancing nervously toward the entrance. As soon as she had turned her gaze away, she felt the food snatched from her fingertips. A soft gasp escaped her, and she pulled her hand back, curling tiny fingers around the bars. She watched in silence as he devoured the treat she had brought._

"_Do you have a name?" She queried, in the same gentle tone - though her voice trembled with the tears she had shed for him._

"_Erik," came his reply, after a long moment. His voice was sweet, eloquent, and she longed to hear it again. _

"_I am sorry for the things he does to you," she began softly._

"_If you're caught, what will they do to you?" the voice returned. It lacked the venom that she found in every other voice that addressed her, and her soul was soothed by his company._

"_Nothing they don't already do," she replied miserably._

"_Then I am sorry for the things he does to you, too."_

_With that, Emina found herself at a loss for words. Reaching to the dirtied hay beneath her, she picked up her gift. She had stolen it, but that did not seem to matter now. She picked up the small monkey, with tiny cymbals fastened to each of its hands. Gently pushing it through the bars, she dropped it at his feet._

"_I will not be able to come often," she murmured. "Perhaps he can keep you company when I cannot."_

_The stomping of feet filled the tent, and utter fear filled Emina's face. She stood, and began to_ _run, intending to slip out the flap at the back of the tent instead of the front. In her haste, she stumbled over some of the litter scattered by those who had come earlier to mock the devil's child. Within a moment he was upon her._

"_Does daddy's little girl like the devil's child, mmm?" The disgusting man atop her slurred, the smell of alcohol burning her eyes. Her face was forced into the grime below her by a callous elbow, and her torture was relived. Only this time, if she opened her eyes, he was there. And through the small holes cut into the sack, she could see that it was his turn to weep for her. _

Raquel wept silently by the time Emina had finished, but after having finished the tale Emina regretted it deeply. She had given one of her good memories away, and whether intentional or not, she knew that eventually it would become fodder for the talk that circulated the dormitories about her.

"I'm sorry," Raquel began, and Emina simply shook her head negatively and lay back, again hiding beneath her pillow. After silence hung between them for what seemed hours, Raquel left more quietly than she had came, and it was Emina's turn to shed a tear.


	2. Tunnels

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"More light!" Cheerfully, the musical voice chided. Jei simply turned toward the large windows and reached to draw each heavy drapery back even further. The morning was cool and crisp, and a few lingering wafts of fog lingered along the streets. Carriages were already busy, carrying the upperclass from one engagement to another, but her Mistress was just rising.

Stretching lazily in the bed, Christine yawned, made quite a motion of stretching, and then sat up suddenly.

"Is it a pretty day, Jei?" Christine was quite fond of the girl whom Raoul had insisted she needed soon after their marriage. This was obvious in the kind way she dealt with her.

"Indeed, Miss. It looks like a busy one too."

"Mmm. How long as Raoul been gone?"

"For hours, I'm sure. It's been quiet in the Manor this morning."

Christine nodded, sliding off of the high bed daintily.

"He had a lot of business to tend to, before the evening." More than a little excitement was evident in her sweet voice, and Jei could only smile. Her Mistress had been talking about this evening with a little dread and quite a bit of excitement for weeks. The new Opera House would hold it's first gala. Oddly enough, there would be no performance for the show would not be ready for at least another few weeks.

Christine had made her way to the large wardrobe and was sifting through it's contents. Her fingers idly trailed through layers upon layers of lovely gowns, her mind drifting.

Would _he_ be there? The tabloids all touted his death, proclaiming that Paris was at last free from the haunting of the Opera Ghost. Christine knew differently. She could feel within every fiber of her being that he existed, and his mind still called to her. In her dreams she heard his voice, and sometimes, she could feel his gaze.

But why should it matter? She was Mrs. Raoul DeChagny now, and her husband would let no harm befall her. And taking the matter a step further, she had no emotions she could rightfully invest into the situation. Even if she did have, would she? Could she? A murderer at the very least, a madman as well. She should be terrified, and partly was! But still... the way her soul soared in her dreams, that feeling that only _he_ could evoke.. It made her shiver just to think of it.

"Miss? Christine?" Christine glanced up quickly, and Jei was staring at her as though she had seen a ghost.

"I've been calling for several minutes now! Is all well?"

"Mmm? Oh, yes, I was just... daydreaming, that's all. Which do you think I should wear?" With that, preparations resumed. Whatever were to happen at the nights festivities, she would be beautiful for it!

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News was not hard to come by. Erik was required to venture out of his secure little nest in search of food at the very least, and each time he appeared in the shadows it seemed more rumors circulated. Opera Ghost Dead At Last! Or Phantom Strikes Fear into Paris! It seemed that, even after two years, there was nothing better to gossip about. The more reputable agencies reported on the construction of the new Opera proper, and he had followed it's progress with interest. The last eve had brought the news, a grand gala! Celebrating freedom from all curses which had, reportedly, been cast upon the Opera Populair, and in anticipation for the upcoming show, Les Troyens, a grand gala would be hosted the following night.

As he had mulled this over, deep within his catacombs, Erik had decided that it was certainly time he explored the new facilities. Nearly all of Paris was connected, it's underbelly consisting of an endless series of tunnels which once served as service access for the ancient sewage system. It would be simple to cross beneath the labyrinth of buildings above and into the new center of the arts.

But why should he bother? His hands had not caressed a key since that night his love had left him. A single note had not parted his uneven lips. Was it the music that drew him back, or the chance that he might see her?

Or both?

That needed no thought now. Erik was busy at work, paying the attention to his appearance that he had neglected for the weeks he had been restoring his residence. Only once he was as immaculate and appealing as he could be, in his devilish way, did he step through the shattered mirror and into the dank and dreary passage ways that would lead him to his poison of choice. Christine.

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"What will you wear?" Bubbled Raquel, as she and Emina both poured over the options.

"Something... blue," responded Emina quietly, her attentions more focused upon the task at hand than the endless chatter her friend was renowned for. The color of _his_ eyes, she thought, as she fingered a particularly delicate dress.

"I think I'll wear this, it is rather flattering and I'm not sure many will be wearing something similar. I mean, wouldn't that be terribly embarrassing if someone showed up in the exact same dress!"

Emina rolled her eyes and turned to look at her friend. Sometimes her patience was pushed to the end with her, but as of now Raquel was the only person left within the cast that looked at her as anything other than a loon. For that matter, there were even rumors circulating now that Madame Giry was going to be rid of Emina soon.

"It's perfect," she purred with little sarcasm.

An array of girls skittered about them, all in an attempt to pick the best dress, or to have the best hair. It was an endless contest between them, and Emina was exhausted of it.

"Oh, look at this one!" a high-pitched voice cried above the din, and before Emina had realized what was happening, the beautiful blue gown had been wrenched from her grasp and was held against the body of another chorus girl.

"Hannah!" Raquel cried in shock. She reached out quickly, in an attempt to snatch the dress back. Emina, for the moment, simply stood dumbfounded.

Hannah had already twirled out of reach and ignored the two near the rack as though nothing had occurred. A cluster of girls fluttered about her, cooing over the beauty of the selection and assuring her it would be perfect.

After only a moment agape, Emina found her sense of pride. She brushed easily through the crooning girls and reached for the dress. Her fingers curled about the top and she nearly jerked it from the other girls grasp.

"In case it wasn't obvious, I had chosen this!" Emina glowered.

The offending party, Hannah, seemed just as surprised that Emina bothered to follow after, and squealed at the assault.

"No one wants you there anyway, gypsy!" A few of the girls gasped, and a circle was formed around the two.

"Fool," Emina cursed softly, jerking hard upon the gown. Still, the other did not release it.

"Fool?" Hannah laughed contemptuously. "You are the fool, Emina. You walk around with your nose in the air, pretending we all don't know that you're insane! Everyone hates you, no one wants you here. Except maybe your little lap dog," the angry female snarled toward Raquel, who made an effort toward her but was as easily thwarted by the throng that surrounded the two. Other women in the crowd began to jeer.

"Nasty gypsy!" Some called. "She's mad, this proves it.." others whispered. Emina felt her anger rise until it pooled in the form of tears in her eyes.

"Ohh, the little princess is going to cry," Hannah mocked.

"Where is your Opera Ghost? Perhaps he will save you." The laugh that followed was horrible and taunting, and Emina would remember it's sound angrily for years after. She gave another fierce tug upon the dress, wrenching it in two. While Hannah was wailing over the loss, Emina shoved it upon her, sending the wench flailing onto her bottom. A host of girls moved to help her up, and Emina took the opportunity to break through the circle. She fled, and for a few moments she heard Raquels footsteps behind her, her voice calling. Emina ignored it, pushing onward through the bowels of the opera house until she reached the quiet of the secret tunnels beneath the city.

Often she would come here, to escape the world above and the demands placed upon her. She had many of the passageways memorized, and knew where each would lead. Tonight, however, she trudged on blindly, so angry she felt that she may vomit. Her head was spinning. For as long as she could remember, they had teased her or whispered behind her back, but never had she been publicly humiliated. They treated her as though she was second rate, and it was a feeling that was all too familiar. She passed quickly through the odorous tunnels blindly, feeling as though she were escaping the tortures behind her.

Each tunnel ran parallel to many others, intersected only when the series of tunnels that ran perpendicular to them would cross over. When they met, they formed a small room that was rounded and at least as big as the tiny room Emina had been allotted above. She crossed through more of these than she could count, well out of the range she usually passed. Finally, she could run no longer. She collapsed into one of these larger spaces, allowing the cold concrete behind her to bite at heated flesh as she leaned into it. The swell of ample breast rose and fell quickly as she attempted to catch her breath. She felt safe, secluded her, and so her eyes closed against her world.


	3. Gaje

**A little cliffie for your reading pleasure. Please review!**

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Meanwhile, Erik moved stealthily through the tunnels as well. Blind abandon was furthest from his approach, though. He moved with a quiet purpose. He had not seen her in over two months, and the last time that he had, it was only as she passed by a storefront upon her husbands arm. He had released her, yes. Her kiss had stirred a compassion in him, and wrought the realization that he had to see her happy. But his infatuation was not satisfied. He still _needed_ to see Christine. If only to feel the pain it brought. Pain proved that he was still alive.

His approach was silent, so it was with great ease that he discerned the presence ahead of him. Labored breathing sounded as though it bordered on tears. He slowed in his approach, luminous eyes narrowed in anger. These tunnels had been long abandoned and with exception of an errant vagabond he cared little of, no one ever stirred amidst them. He had no desire to murder, but to protect his territory he would easily do so. With this on mind, Erik peered about the next corner, into the open concave. There, huddled in the corner, seemed to be a woman.

Erik considered retreat. Simply taking the tunnel prior east for one block, he could circle back and completely avoid this confrontation. Seeming the perfect solution, he did just that. But as he crossed through the opening parallel to the one the girl had been in, he found that she was no longer there. Suspicion grew, and with an inward growl he decided that she must have seen him. He would be revealed in _his_ time, and if that meant that he would have to silence one life, then so be it. The chase began.

Emina's heart raced as she ran through the tunnels. She was in little mood to be violated by a drunkard who had found this place by mistake, and whatever confidence she had in her self-defense, she was not a fool. Most men were much larger and stronger than she and she had learned long ago that women most often lost such a struggle. She fled in the direction she thought was home, not realizing she was moving in exactly the opposite direction. Unbeknownst to her as well, every footfall provided perfect bait for the hunter upon her trail.

The rustling of her skirts and the heavy way she breathed led him onwards, and he found the chase left the taste of excitement in his mouth. A game had begun, and she was excellent prey. He moved much quicker and more silently than she, and crossed before and behind her repeatedly, causing her to cry out in alarm and change directions. He was enjoying the little hunt quite a bit, until he realized the direction they had taken. Toward his own domain.

Things got much more serious, quickly, and within two passes he had trapped her. Before she could take in a breath of warning, the bite of the rope was taut against her throat. It captured ebon curls and pinned them against her nape, delicate chin being thrust upward forcefully. Fear was abandoned and a simple anger consumed her.

"Gaje!" she spat in a curse, with the last bit of air that lingered in her lungs.

The word was familiar, thick with accent, and surprised Erik so much that he unintentionally dropped the end of the rope that was wrapped expertly within his hands.

Emina hit the ground with a thud, and had just as quickly scrambled to hands and knees and began an attempt at escape once more. Erik stared at her retreating back for several seconds, caught off guard. Once he realized that she was escaping, he lunged after her, sending her crashing to the crude and rough stone ground beneath. The curvature of a fine cheek bone met that earth in a bitter kiss which caused her vision to blur. As she felt him atop her, she cried out and began to struggle violently.

Erik could not help but respect the tiny victim beneath her. It was seldom that he found so much fight in a grown man. He could feel the creatures fear, however, and curiosity now consumed him. He pulled each slender arm from her side, though she attempted to rip the flesh from his hands as he did so, and pinned them above her head. Just as deftly, he shifted that his knees supported his weight and not the slight frame beneath him. With one ungraceful shove, he flipped the girl from back to belly. Blood oozed from a cut upon her lip, and a terrible bruise had already raised upon her cheek. Otherwise, Erik could tell little through the tangle of midnight locks that covered her face. Holding her arms captive with one hand, he reached his other gloved fingers down to roughly brush those invading tresses away. What he revealed sparked a chord of familiarity within him, though he could not place it.

"Gaje!" the girl cursed again, although this time softer. Her vision still swam and she could hardly see a figure at all above her, much less make out the features.

"A gypsy?" Came the fluid voice, and immediately all fight seemed to leave his little captive.

"What are you doing here, in my catacombs, rabble?" The contempt he felt for her kind was obvious, and a shudder coursed the length of her spine beneath the weight of his words. It was _him_. She could not speak. Furiously she blinked against the blow which had damaged her vision, each flutter of those dark lashes wiping away a bit of the confusion. Within a moment his face was in view, though not quite focused. The half-white mask she had heard so much about was present, and the well side of his face was just as she remembered it. Only, it was not a childish face that slowly came into view. It was that of a strong, handsome man and finally she gasped.

Erik, however, had lost patience and decided that he should rid the world of one more of those horrid people. His hand found her throat, and just before he jerked that pretty head in the one blow that would end it all, she cried out.

"Erik!"

* * *

Raouls hand rested lightly upon the dainty curvature of his loves back. He felt more secure that way, as though somehow she were tethered to him and no one could snatch her from his grip. In truth, Christine liked it very much this way as well for quite nearly the same reason.

"Are you ready?" He murmured softly into the cascade of curls that fell about her shoulders, his head dipping to allow a quick taste of their intoxicating fragrance. He left a kiss upon her brow.

"Yes," she replied just as quietly, and her voice wavered.

"We don't have to go, Christine." Raoul reminded her, to which his beloved simply nodded.

"Yes, we do."

Raoul couldn't understand why she was so insistent upon this, but he permitted it and simply nodded as well.

"Then let's."

With that, Mr. and Mrs. DeChagny turned to the door, and began their descent down the broad, spiraling staircase that would lead them to their carriage.

Both were filled with dread as they settled into the seat, and each dealt with it differently. Raoul reached for Christine's delicate hand and curled it protectively within his own. He gazed at her as they rode, the familiar tot-a-lot of the horses hooves nearly drowning out his words.

"Christine..." he began. She worried him so. Even now, she stared out the window with an expression that seemed so tormented, and he knew she was in the other place.

The place that Christine often went, where he could not reach her. He'd call to her, and she'd scarcely hear. She heard very little of what he said, and seemed to always wear a downcast expression. They had argued over this, not so long ago.

"Why can't you just let it go?" Raoul had shouted, at the end of his wits with the situation. "Even _he_ let us go. Why can't you release him? He is dead, Christine. You fear a ghost!"

"I try, Raoul. You do not know what it's like. I can feel him, I know he is alive. And as long as he is alive, I can never have peace. In the square, I feel his eyes upon me. When I dream, he is there. He calls to me, and sings to me - and it torments me!"

"Christine," Raouls tone had softened, his arms slipping about his frail wife. He held her to him, fingers lifting to tangle in her hair. "I love you, Christine. Let me be your freedom..."

Christine had relented, melting into her lovers arms as she always did. And for the night, it seemed as though she had cast off the shadow of the Opera Ghost. As soon as she had returned from the market the next morning, however, his presence had returned to her mind.

"I felt him," she had confided in her husband, and from that moment Raoul had not questioned her again about it. It seemed as though nothing would free her from this curse, except.. Just maybe... death. _His_ death.

"Mmmm?" Christine had finally heard him, after he had gently spoken her name at least a dozen times. Raoul did not ask the questions that lay so heavy upon his heart. Where were you just then? Were you thinking of me, or was it _him_ again? Will you ever belong to me?

"Let's not go," he pleaded gently. What was he afraid of? Mostly, perhaps, that the Ghost was still alive. And what would happen should Christine see him.

"It'll be fine," Christine smiled, and for the first time in the evening, she was radiant. The thoughts that plagued her had passed, and she was finally seeing her husband again. "Besides, you look too handsome. We simply must go!" A soft giggle followed, and Raoul melted into her charm.


	4. You're Dead

**A/N - Thanks for the review, echo. Could you please explain to me what a Mary-Sue is?**

**As for the rest of you! There are at least thirty of you who have read all three chapters. Please review. :(**

* * *

Cold had already begun to seep through her dress, and Emina shuddered against it. The rough hewn floor bit into the exposed, delicate flesh of her shoulders leaving small indentations and bruises. Erik's weight atop her did not help the matter any. He had simply frozen, and fastened a vicious stare upon her face, as though he were searching for something.

"Please," her voice had softened, the panic that had spurred her cry moments before melting away. "Please." Did she plead for her life, for recognition, or something altogether different?

"Who are you?" Erik demanded, his voice hardly more than a hiss. His broad shoulders stooped, until his face was merely inches from her own. She seemed so familiar, and yet his mind could not piece the puzzle together. A gypsy who was obviously comfortable with the language, that knew his name. It made little sense, as the only gypsies he had ever known provided only torture.

"Emina," her voice stammered quickly. The simple emission should explain it all, at least in her mind. She had never forgotten, not for a moment, his name. Or his face. The idea that he may have completely forgotten her had never even crept into her imagination.

Nothing happened. He did not release his grip, which was so tight about fragile wrist that she could no longer feel her fingers. His weight, which pinned her hips uncomfortably to the earth beneath, only seemed to increase if it were possible. He was not convinced to relent.

"Emina," she stated again, more insistently. Again, nothing. She felt the heat of embarassment kiss her cheeks, realization finally settling upon her mind. He _had_ forgotten. Now, genuinely, she feared for her life.

"In the camp. I would bring you things. Food, toys. The man.. you... murdered. He was... he called... my father. We were friends, Erik. Friends."

It had been more than a year since Erik had spoken with another living soul, apart from the vagabond that sometimes found their fateful end within his tunnels. This, his first conversation in so long, was not as he had imagined it. The face, although female, was entirely different.

"Emina?" The melodic voice repeated, which little recognition. Still, as easily as it fell from his lips - Emina felt a delight course through her.

"Yes," she continued, in a very gentle tone. "I would tend to your wounds. We would talk, for hours. We made up games. Do you remember? We would try to see which could finish the others word first. Silly things," she mused quietly, although a smile flirted upon pretty lips. "But things were hard, and we only had each other. You must remember, Erik. You must." The last two words sounded more like a plea.

"Do not call me that," he growled, silencing her for a moment. Still, she found the courage the blunder on.

"Do you remember when I brought you the monkey? With the little cymbals." Emina now felt as though her very existence depended upon convincing this beast atop her that she was not a foe.

"It was the very first time we had spoken. Not long after you arrived. He had beaten you, fiercely. I stayed until he... I was caught."

The first hint of a negativity related to the memories she claimed for both of them. The quiver in her voice triggered a memory.

"He raped you." It was a simple statement, with none of the compassion any normal person would certainly feel for her.

"Yes," she affirmed, gaze averting to the lapel of his jacket. Even now, saying those things aloud humiliated her.

The phantom above her seemed content to let her live, as his grip upon her wrists released. She pulled them downwards possessively and began to nurse the wounds he had inflicted there. Erik glanced upwards toward the dark tunnels ahead. He had an affair to tend to, and now this delay.

What would he do with the girl?

In a quick gesture, his fingers tangled roughly in the silken tresses that crowned her head, and he could almost feel their softness in the moment before he lifted her head from the ground beneath, and then returned it heavily in a blow just severe enough to close her pretty eyes in a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Sound was the only sense that seemed to function, at first. Echoes seemed to bounce and reflect off of one another, creating a whole host of sounds that would easily confuse the listener. At the same time, it was eerily quiet - with only the occasional drop of water to cause such a cacophony of noise. Sensation seemed to come next, and she could feel the chill that seemed to surround her. A deep sort of cold that was only found under the earth. Much the same as in her tunnels. And then there was the smell. The scent of raw earth and water, and before Emina had even opened her eyes she realized she was in large concave beneath the ground. Nothing could prepare her for the sight she would find.

Slowly she blinked, and squirmed against bonds she had yet to identify. Before her view unfolded a decadent, sinister lair that had been rebuilt to it's former state. Few things were missing, but Emina would not have known to look for those things. As her head lifted from the stone it rested upon, she could see that the same rope which had nearly taken her life.. was it hours before?... now was fastened securely about already damaged wrist and this time the tender curve of her ankles. She was effectively hog-tied. She groaned aloud, the pain from the knot in the back of her head finally greeting her in searing strokes that went through her mind. This was not at all how she imagined she would be reunited with her friend.

As more of the present became tangible to her, she realized she had been dropped rather unceremoniously upon the smooth stone which led upwards to a dias, and a throne-like chair. Inches from her feet, which were strangely bare, a muted green water licked idly at the landing which a small gondola had claimed as it's resting place. Her inspection continued further, the beaten captive managing to shift into a somewhat upright position. It was obvious that this place belonged to him. His touch was evident everywhere.

Reverie interrupted, Emina's head snapped quickly in the direction of the sound of glass crunching beneath heavy feet. Within a moment, his figure appeared through the empty frame which had once housed a mirror. Emina's heart immediately leaped, and then sank as quickly. Would he kill her? This was all such a mess! She did not dare speak.

He ignored her presence as he entered, striding easily toward his chair. He dropped into it without a sound and gazed off toward the heavy bars which sealed his domain off from the carnage above. It had been quite the night, and Christine's sweet voice still echoed in his mind. The ghost was quite distracted. Emina shifted, causing the tail of her rope to drop into the very edge of the water and a slosh followed. His eyes darted quickly toward the sound.

Curse it, then there was the girl. Memories he had gladly sealed off were being forced to the surface by her mere presence, and he seriously considered whether it would be easier to simply be rid of her and the whole problem.

"You're supposed to be dead," he chided.

Eyes widened, Emina nearly laughed. "Dead?" she repeated, soft interrogative causing her voice to lilt.

"I heard him say, the night before I ..left. That he was finished with you, and that you would never be his worry again. I seen the dagger. He killed you."

Emina struggled to maintain her upright position. Her perch left her most precariously teetering, and she found it rather humbling to be bound before him as he sat so regally upon his high chair.

"No. He sold me. To Orlo. I became a business soon after." Anger tinged the words at the end, and Erik scowled. He remembered the fat man who was called Orlo, and the disgusting way he had carried himself. This was not an enjoyable trip down memory lane.

"A business?"

Had he no mercy? Would he make her say it? "Prostitution. I was 12."

Erik did not seem moved. The months prior had made emotions a distant thing that were difficult for him to tap into, unless he made the conscious decision to try.

"Disgusting," he muttered simply, gaze again dropping to her face. She could not tell to what or whom he referred.

"I had little choice in the matter," she spat. "Seems you've forgotten what it was like."

"Do not lecture me on misfortune," he snapped, leaning forward in his regal seat.

Emina was silenced at last, and she simply pursed her little lips in defeat. Silence surrounded the duo, and as Emina's gaze drifted to the waters threatening to lick at her bare toes, Erik stared at her.

How had this little sprite that had once been his only source of hope found him again? And should he be pleased that she had? He had not a single drop of kindness to offer her, and yet he regretted being so rough. She had once shown him the most true compassion he had ever felt, and he had bound her, very nearly beaten her in all of the scuffle, and now chided her. But what was he to do? He could scarcely focus with such a distraction, and he had things to consider. Like Christine.

Finally, he was moved to return a bit of the gentleness she had offered him when he was only a child. It was a mental decision, with little emotion attached. That part of him was dead. The handsome ghost stood so quietly that Emina, despite her proximity, did not notice. In what seemed to be a single fluid motion, he was crouched at her side. Emina started, and as she turned quickly in his direction, his face hovered so close she could feel the heat of his breath upon her cheek.

His fingers were deft and quick, and as easily as he had appeared at her side, he had freed her from the rope that had left a raw kiss upon her flesh. Her languid form was released of it's awkward position, and she sighed with the relief of it. Slender digits stroked at aching wrist. He had not retreated.

"Thank you," she spoke in a half-whisper.

"You were kind to me once, Emina." The acknowledgement, her name, or both, were so pleasing to hear from his lips that she smiled. It would be short-lived.

"Since you were, I am going to show a kindness to you. There is nothing here but death, hell, and decay. You are full of life, and do not belong. Leave now, mention this to no one, and forget you ever knew me."

Then he was gone. His back was to her now, as he idly toyed with a feathered quill. Emina stared after him.

"You're not a beast, Erik, as much as you may pretend to be." With that, Emina stood, crossing the distance between them. Boldly, she reached to touch him. Her fingertips brushed the strong line of his jaw, opposite the stark mask.

Whatever this creature was, demon or angel, phantom or ghost, he was as much a man as any other. The caress felt splendid, especially to one unaccustomed to receiving it. For a brief moment, he allowed himself this indulgence - even canting his head aside to welcome the touch.

Realizing his mistake, his hand darted up and grasped her wounded wrist - eliciting a wince from the slip of a woman who would dare lecture him.

"You know nothing of me, woman, now leave me."

This time, she did - a mournful glance cast behind as she stepped through the pass betwixt his hovel and the tunnels.

The silence that followed seemed even more thick, and lonely, than usual.


	5. Exposed

**A/N - I don't own Phantom, etc etc.**

**Do these chapters seem too long? I'm finding it difficult to make them more concise, it would cut a scene in half. Do you mind reading longer ones? Let me knew, dear reviewer(s)!**

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* * *

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The curls that wound about his bare fingers felt like fine silk, each tiny strand entwining with it's neighbor to create a blanket of mahogany that bound his hands. He stroked the locks, then leaned to inhale the terribly sweet fragrance that they held. His fingertips ventured lower, along the nape of her neck. The light caress tickled the downy hair there and caused his lover to shiver. She smiled, cherry lips inviting as she glanced upwards at him. He continued his exploration along the line of her throat, bared and calling to him. Once he had stroked the length of delicate, fragile clavicle, he dipped his head to taste of her flesh. A simple kiss, placed upon the curvature of her feminine shoulder. The darting of his tongue tasted the flesh he claimed, and with a delighted sigh she could withstand it no longer. Christine turned, reaching to curl one arm loosely about his neck and with the other, stroke the exposed side of his face.

"_Erik," his love purred, lifting her chin in beckon. _

_He obeyed, dipping his head to take the ambrosia of her kiss from those sweet lips. Their kiss seemed endless, the playful dance of eager and hungry tongues, the teasing nip of pearly white teeth. Fingers curled, clutching at the other. Nothing could satisfy except more._

_Her fingers shifted then, to the cool mask that shielded part of him from her desirous gaze. Without a word, she pulled it away from his flesh and as his deformity was revealed, she recoiled. Fear marred her pretty face, and Erik felt the thick and delicious happiness that had coiled it's possessive fingers about his soul dissipate. In reality, he was a creature to be despised, not loved. In agony, he turned from the face of his beloved - now horrified at the sight of him, and walked into the cold darkness that called to him._

Erik lay still upon his ornate bed for many moments after the dream ended. He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the misshapen flesh beneath his fingertips. If he were to be given the visage of a beast, why not the soul of one? Was God not merciful enough to take from him the desires for something higher, purer than he would ever attain? His precious Christine was gone, and yet he longed for her continually. Would it not be easier to hate her? Or, better yet, to forget her?

A heavy sigh brought him to his feet and within moments he was dressed, and ascending the passageway that would bring him into the world above. He must see her. Now.

* * *

The gala had been quite a success for the DeChagny's, socially and in every business venture Raoul had been interested in furthering that night. Christine had enjoyed the colors, the music, the general excitement of such a grand event. And for most of the night, she forgot about him. Only once, when she had stepped onto the terrace to view the grand hall and all of it's occupants from above, did she feel as though he were with her once more.

"_Let your soul take you where you long to be! Only then, can you belong to me..."_

She often heard his voice in her spirit, singing his haunting melodies to her. And as this one replayed, he felt so near she thought she imagined his breath upon her neck. When the moment had passed, she had hurried to Raouls side, and had soon forgotten the whole thing.

Now, though, as Christine sat before her vanity preparing for bed, she could think of nothing else. He was a madman, and to imagine him as anything more was foolish. And yet, she longed for him with an intensity that she feared would drive her mad. The large windows were thrown open, the summer wind causing the sheer curtains to dance. Robed simply, she felt a chill at it's kiss and stood to close it. As she leaned against the pane, however, she felt drawn to the streets below. Few people scurried here and there, a single carriage making it's way languidly down the street - the entire city prepared to rest. It seemed so pretty to Christine, the ebb and flow of humanity viewed from her perch. Words she had sang so long ago crept into her thoughts, and she allowed a few to part her sweet lips in song.

"_Think of me, trying too hard to put you from my mind..."_

In her mind, she sang for him. He had commanded her to do so once, upon that glassy lake, and now she did again. Between the row of storefronts lining the street in front of her, there were slithers of darkness where shadow fell. Suddenly, breaking the quietness of her reverie, part of that shadow moved. And continued to, it seemed, until the mild illumination of a nearby lamp disintegrated the cloak. He stood before her, just as she remembered him. Their eyes met, and her breath caught. Should she run? Raoul was only downstairs in the study, she should get him immediately. And yet, she longed to run _to_ the man before her. Upon foolish impulse, she turned to do just that.

As Christine turned, wide-eyed, from the window, Erik felt his heart sink. And then the numbness followed. She had fled from him, yet again. He stared for a long moment after her, the image of her in that window emblazoned in his mind. Then, he turned, thinking it best to avoid being seen by anyone else, and disappeared into the shadows from whence he came.

Christine burst into the street, having forgotten to even don a cloak. Her eyes desperately searched each little alley-way, finding nothing. Had she dreamed it?

"_Angel of music, hide no longer..."_

In his retreat, he could have sworn he heard her sing.

* * *

The tunnels were moist as Emina navigated uncertainly through them. Even still, a torrential downpour soaked the land above and began seeping through the aging walls of this place. She stepped over puddles as best she could, trying hard to find her way. The first time she had been taken to his domain, it had been in a state of unconsciousness and as she had left it, she had been so upset that she had scarcely taken note of which turns to make.

It proved not too difficult at all, as within half an hour she approached what she knew to be the entrance, covered with a heavy cloak from the other side. She stepped up to it, fingers trembling as they grasped at the velvet material.

The cavern was illuminated more this evening than it had been at her last visit. Many candles shone, their wax dripping eagerly onto brass holders. Droplets of water trailed along the stacked stone walls inside, and the movement of the waters encouraged the lake to ripple. The candlelight danced off of this in an odd manner, creating a very surreal environment. In the center of it all he sat, scratching furiously at a piece of paper with his inkwell at hand. Emina stepped in, uninvited.

"May I?" He hardly glanced up. Her voice was friendly, and he was in a much better mood.

"Yes." He simply continued his work.

"I brought you some things," Emina said quietly as she sat the bundle she had been carrying upon the edge of his dias, stepping towards his side.

"I am not a child," he reminded her. "I don't need you to care for me any longer."

The words, though spoken cooly with no emotion at all, even negative, were stinging to Emina.

"Perhaps it is I that need you then," she shrugged. "To care for, that is. Everyone else thinks me mad, I have no one else to lavish affection upon."

"I don't want your affection."

"What are you doing?" she murmured conversationally as she unraveled the package and pulled something from it. Finally, she reached his side and balanced precariously upon the edge of the bench he already occupied. A sweet, delicate pastry was offered in her outstretched hand.

"Writing," he said, ignoring the treat.

"Do you remember the time I bought us one of these, each? With stolen money, of course, but it was so delicious then - and it was always your favorite."

Erik glanced up. Despite the callouses that blinded his heart to any affection except for Christine, he had to see the effort this little gypsy was making with him. With little regret, he reached for the gift and placed it aside.

"I remember," he said, and Emina smiled.

"You're welcome. What are you writing?"

Odd how she acted as though they had been friends forever, and as though he were not a lonely gargoyle condemned to his own hell. She leaned over enough to read a few of the words on the paper. Christine.

"What really happened?"

He knew what she referred to as soon as she had spoken the words, and he simply shook his head. Christine was _his_ and that was something he did not have to share with anyone. Perhaps it would be best to distract the little vixen. He put his papers away and turned to face her, resigned to play the little game.

"I thought you were dead. How did you come to be here?"

Emina held his gaze bravely for a moment, and then looked away. She seemed mildly embarrassed as she spoke.

"As I told you before, Orlo was my new Master. My father was killed not long after. They sold me for profit at every town we went to. You had promised me, Erik, to save me. You were gone, and I just wanted to die. I tried." She turned delicate wrist over to show the well-healed scars. "I was too much of an investment to let die," she added scornfully.

"We were in Paris several years after you left. I managed to convince a drunkard that had come to me for three nights to steal me away, to take me as his own. He did, and I endured some time in his home. Then, he had a terrible misfortune." Emina glanced upwards at the beast before her, and he was surprised with the dangerous flash he seen in those dark orbs.

"Continue," he demanded, albeit softly.

"I came to the Opera House, joined the ballet, and lived here since. Until the fire."

"All that time? I did not recognize you."

"You were busy with other things," she reminded him, more than a hint of jealousy in her voice.

Erik smirked.

"Yes. And when it burned?" He asked without a trace of regret.

"To try to find you." Her honesty was brutal. He was taken aback. His mind could not wrap itself around the concept of someone caring enough to look for him. "I've only been back now for several months," she concluded finally, lifting her index to lick the sweet icing from it.

Erik stared at the vivacious girl before him, somewhat dumbstruck. Most of him longed to send her on her way, to free himself of the life she seemed to exude. His hope had been extinguished, and having to endure another's was proving difficult.

"Why?"

Emina was caught off guard with this question, and lifted her eyes to his. She gave no oral response. He prodded.

"Tell me." His voice was lower, more fierce, and she found that she could not disobey.

"Because I hated her. I loved you. I feared for you. For years I tried to reach you, in that opera house, but your song was only for her. And then... after that night. I knew you must be hurting."

Erik gave a slight chuckle in reproach. "You cannot love me, you do not know me."

"I think that you have lost yourself," she chimed in response.

"Foolish," he replied.

"Why do you wear the mask, then? When you're alone? Did you wear it for her? What do you fear?"

As she always seemed to manage, Emina was beginning to agitate the creature of darkness.

"Child! What lies behind the mask is too gruesome to be exposed."

"I know what is behind the mask," she cooed convincingly, reaching a hand to touch the smooth surface. "Let me see you."

Erik growled, and it would have sounded menacing to anyone else, but Emina still seen a helpless boy when she looked into his eyes, and so she ignored the warning. Her fingertips stroked the outline of the mask where it intersected with well flesh.

"Erik," that sweet voice chimed, a sound he was rather getting used to. His chin dropped minutely, the comfort of another living things affection too much to resist. Emina took it as a gesture of consent, and pulled the mask from his face. The perfect, ebon hair was gone and the more natural sandy brown of his own hair was visible, though only scattered patches covered the malformed portions of his skull. The grotesque, horrible sight of his face came into view, but only for a moment. The beast lifted his hand to cover it, and as quickly used his other arm in a sweeping motion to push her away. This succeeded in pushing her from her delicate perch atop the bench they had shared, onto the cold stone beneath. She landed with a grunt, catching her weight upon the palms of her hands - which would later bear sore red marks as testimony to his anger.

"Vixen!" Erik cursed at her, stalking away. "Just like the others. Run, flee!"

Emina struggled with the mass of material that was her dress, finally managing to right herself again. She stood, and walked to him. Trembling hand lifted and gripped at his shoulder, attempting to turn him to face her.

"You forget so quickly," she murmured convincingly, "That I run to you. I keep returning, though you tell me to stay away. You don't horrify me." Her coaxing finally worked, and he turned to her - though his hand still covered his face. Emina was beautiful, and he seen it perhaps for the first time as he gazed down at her at that moment. The deep chocolate that was her eyes glistened with tears, though the emotion that they conveyed was scarcely one of horror or regret. It was a sympathy, an affection, a desire that Erik could not understand. He had never seen such an expression cast his way, and it befuddled him. Her hair was touseled from her fall, and framed her angelic face in a cascade of loose curls that appeared so soft - he almost considered how it would feel to crush them between his fingers. The woman he gazed at had her jaw set with determination, and it was an adorable expression once he had taken in the delicacy of her features. Pert little nose, full and pouty lips, and the silken invitation of her golden skin. She was so different from Christine, though. There was no child before him, no naivety. This was a beautiful woman, who was smiling at him.

Emina darted the tip of a pinkened tongue outwards to caress her lips, almost nervously. He was _seeing_ her now, for the first time since they had been reunited - and she felt the heat of his gaze, assessing her, taking in each part of her as though he would measure her worth. Pretty chin lifted a little higher, and she reached for his hand. Her fingers stroked the back of it lightly, and then entwined with his own. Gently, she pulled the cloak away so that his deformed face was fully exposed. The ghosts gaze never wavered, carefully measuring her response. He would have little regret if she should flee, he had tried to force her to that before. Oddly, he had a sort of confidence that she wouldn't. When she smiled, he felt a bit of the tension that had wound itself into his muscles release. It was an odd thing to be accepted as he was, and not something he was entirely comfortable with. Erik allowed his hands to drop limply by his sides, and he stood before her, unmasked.

Emina stared openly at him, daring not hide her curiosity or examination of him. And then, she arched up on tiptoe in an attempt to reach him. Sweet lips could only brush the line of his jaw in a gentle kiss, but oddly - she chose the unmasked side of his face to grace with the sign of affection.

"Much better," she stated simply, after she had settled back to her feet.

The kiss had felt like silk and fire and all things pleasureable and painful. An intrigue was stirring in him about this woman who would approach him so boldly, and accept him so openly. But just as he would gather his wits enough to reach for her, to speak to her, anything, she turned away.

This, however, was not an echo of his dream for she skittered off to the desk they had sat at - and reached for the pastry. Life seemed to exude from this female, and it was distracting enough that he deigned to enjoy it. It could not last long. Happiness never did.

"Now, you should eat this. It's delicious as it is, but if you leave it be it will grow stale. There are more things in the bag, but for now - I must go. Madame Giry is a beast and if I am late once more she will have my head."

All the while she was walking toward the exit as she spoke. She stopped, gazed over her shoulder, and smiled genuinely at him.

"I am glad to see you again, Erik."

As she left, her words resounded in his mind and he could tell - she really meant it.


	6. The Good Doctor

**A/N - Thanks for the wonderful reviews! In case any of you are reading both of my fics, do not think I'm abandoning the other for this one. A huge part of this one is already written, whereas Twisted Fate is coming purely out of my brain as you read it. I'm just copying pieces of this in for you guys to read every day or so. **

**my-echo - I can't wait for more OW! I agree about Erik being like a wild animal. I often think of him like that when I'm writing him.**

**Erik's Ange de la Musique - Welcome aboard! I'm glad you're enjoying.**

**Lotte Rose - I'm sure we're all guilty of being predisposed to a certain idea of how someone or something should be. Emina is very much like that with Erik. I like it too. :) I also like very much that he IS gruff with her. There are many reasons why Erik wouldn't simply fall in love with the first girl to walk through the door, and their entangled pasts complicate it even further.**

**devel fier - Thanks for the review! I'm glad the chapters aren't too long and hope you stay tuned in :)**

**To everyone else reading but not reviewing - please let me know what you think!**

**And without further ado...**

* * *

Books littered the tables about, Raoul rubbed his tired eyes and stretched languidly. It was late, and he still had so much work to do. He leafed through a stack of papers, trying to find the key to his future within. Sometimes he missed being a child.

Christine appeared in the doorway of his study, in her night clothes only, and with an odd expression upon her face. He stood quickly and strode to her, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders to wrap about her.

"Someone will see you Christine! Where are your clothes?"

He rubbed her shoulders through the material, trying to catch her gaze. "What is the matter?"

"He's alive." His wife muttered.

Raoul felt a heavy sense of defeat fall upon him, the sort that one could only feel after having struggled with some thing for a very long time and at last be overcome by it. He was tiring of this.

"No, my love. He is dead. And even if he were alive, I'd never let him harm you."

Christine did not bother explaining the ordeal at that moment, as she doubted he would believe her if she had. She simply nodded, and allowed her husband to take her into his arms for a comforting embrace.

During the next hour, Raoul had comforted his wife and held her until she slept. As soon as she rested soundly upon her pillow, he moved back to his study and called one of his servants to him

"Make a call upon Dr. Frentz, tell him to come as quickly as he can manage and I will pay him well for the consult. Tell him I am concerned for my wife."

The servant did exactly as he had been instructed.

* * *

Rows of slender girls dressed in similar fashion stood upon the stage, and Emina hurried to join them. She hoped to silently slip into formation without notice. Her luck would not have it so. 

"Ahh, Emina. How nice of you to join us!" The thick french accent of Madame Giry caused Emina to cringe. She dipped her head in a sort of curtsy. "Forgive me, Madame." Though she seemed unhappy to do so, Giry consented with a nod of her head and Emina quickly found her place. Waves of giggles flowed through the rest of the girls, and only Raquel seemed sympathetic as their gazes met. Already, Emina could hear a few of the most common insults she received being whispered amongst the others.

"Enough!" scowled Madame Giry. "Let's begin again."

And with that, the girls were silenced and all began to rehearse. They worked hard and long, until everyone seemed short of breath and they all wondered if they could take another step. Their long limbs and curved hips glistened with sweat, and a few of the males in the cast had long since stopped their work to watch the girls in their struggle. Madame Giry was relentless, and only released them when they began to be clumsy out of exhaustion.

"Lazy! Pitiful! We practice in the morning, before breakfast!"

A groan rose from the girls in unison, but a simple glance from their teacher silenced them. Madame Giry strode off of the stage without another word, and the girls began to busy themselves collecting their things.

"Where have you been?" Raquel probed, as she managed to catch up to Emina.

Emina simply smiled. She had not done so quite as sincerely in all the time she had been back, and Raquel was taken aback.

"Do tell!" she exuded with a smile. "And where _do_ you keep getting these marks?" Raquel had grasped Emina's hand and turned it upright to inspect the rosy palm. Emina had forgotten about it entirely.

"Not here," she whispered, just as Hannah strolled her way.

"It's probably for the best you didn't come to the gala, gypsy. You would have been quite embarrassed when no one asked you to dance. And really, what would you have worn?" The trouble-maker smirked, obviously enjoying herself and intent upon humiliating Emina again.

"You're probably right, Hannah." Emina said in a tone that was so syrupy sweet it made Raquel do a double-take. "Emina?" she asked questionably.

Emina ignored her friend and continued. "I heard you did have a fabulous time, what - with the attention Lukas gave you and all!"

Even a few of her own consorts snickered at this comment, and Hannah's face flushed. She stood as though she would retort back, but simply lacked the words. Finally, in a huff, she turned and left quickly.

Raquel laughed, and she and Emina went toward their room as well. Once all was settled and they were ready for sleep, despite the endless questions Raquel drilled her with, Emina would only consent to divulge one comment.

"He _is_ alive." Said with a smile, Emina slept soundly for the first time in many nights.

* * *

"There are things that can be done for her, Monsieur. They've recently built a new asylum just outside of Paris. It is reputable for it's individual care and..." 

Raoul lifted his hand in dismissal.

"Are you sure she's mental, doctor? Could it not just be the fright that lingers on? I will not institutionalize my wife!"

The doctor patted Raouls hand as though he were a child who could not understand, and continued.

"There are treatments which I will not get into the details of, that could help. It would be a short stay - a month perhaps? And then she could return, well, to you."

Raoul shifted uncomfortably. The idea of having Christine in a whole state of mind was immeasurably appealing - yet he could not bring himself to welcome the idea of sending her off.

"Think of it as a break, Monsieur. Away from the things that stress her. A trip to the countryside."

Rubbing his pounding temples, Raoul stood. "I will think on it doctor. In the meantime, is there anything I can do here to help her?"

"Try to keep her calm. Keep her busy. Find things she enjoys and involve her with them. A busy mind has little time to imagine things. Should she get into a fit, you can subdue her with this."

The doctor produced a small container which contained a liquid substance. "Chloroform. Upon a cloth, have her breathe it. It will help temporarily."

Raoul nodded, and after having paid the older gentleman handsomely for coming out in very nearly the middle of the night, seen him out.

He ascended the stairs with some dread, and laid to rest beside Christine's sleeping form. Had it been a mistake to marry her? Would she ever be well? He stroked the length of her arm with his fingertips, and she stirred in her sleep. Again he felt of the soft flesh in a light stroke, and this time Christine rolled from her side to her back. Able to view her more fully, he could see that he breathing was slightly ragged. Her parted lips trembled and through the sheer material of her gown he could see that the dusky nipples that topped her pert breasts were swollen and budded. Was she dreaming? Was it of him? Raoul pushed these thoughts from his mind. Tonight, he needed comfort - at whatever cost. He stroked the exposed portion of her chest, pushing her gown aside to cup one breast. A soft moan escaped his lovers lips, and her slender arms lifted to curl about his shoulders, drawing him into her. As he lowered his mouth to taste what was his, his beloved pleaded for his touch with a soft purr.

"Angel.."

* * *

Erik had been awoken in the darkest part of the morning by a soft hand upon his face. He had very nearly broken the tiny wrist attached to it before he realized who it was. 

"Emina," he had said accusingly, and proceeded into a lengthy discourse about sneaking up on him. Emina had said nothing, simply removed the mask and wig and once he was completely exposed to her - she settled at his side in the swanlike bed. He was stiff as she snuggled into him, her head resting upon his strong shoulder. Her fingertips found his hand and danced along his palm. Within moments he could tell by the rhythmic beat of her breathing that she slept. The arm that was stretched aside to allow her by him shifted, curling a bit closer to the warmth at his side - though still not quite touching her. Her fingers had stilled within his palm, and he closed his hand around hers. That mass of hair that fell about her shoulders was unkempt and splayed across his chest, and the sweet feminine fragrance that she exuded assaulted his nostrils. How unusual this felt! He watched her sleep for a few long moments, reveling in the way it felt to feel a woman at his side. Then, as his thoughts drifted to Christine, he longed for this woman to be her. His embrace tightened a bit, hand finally finding purchase along the curve of her hip. How sweet life would have been if his love had chosen him! Erik closed his eyes and pretended the morsel at his side was his love, and allowed himself to sleep.

When he awoke, the warmth beside of him was gone and there was no trace of Emina. Had it been a dream? He rolled to his side, and seen the mask she had placed aside. No, it had been real enough. For the first time since he had found Christine, Erik found himself longing for someone's company. And this time, not _hers_.


	7. On Lust

**Another update for you all. I apologize for the delay. I enjoy this chapter very much, I hope you do too. Thank you for all of the kind reviews.**

**Also, for those of you who are reading both stories, worry not! I am typing like a mad(wo)man in the background on Twisted Fate. I promise an update by tomorrow morning at the latest.**

**Without further ado..!**

* * *

Emina rapped lightly upon the door, quite nervously. No response. Once more she knocked lightly, and just as she was about to walk away a voice from within called.

"Enter." Emina turned the knob and stepped in.

"You called for me, Madame Giry?" Emina did not fear much, but this opera house was her salvation at the moment. It provided food, warmth, shelter. And best of all, easy access to _him_. The idea of losing that security made her fearful.

"Yes, Emina. Please, sit. Sit. I want you to tell me what troubles you so. What makes you late for every practice - what kept you from the gala? Why do you sneak out in the middle of the night? Where did you go, last night?"

Emina was surprised by the question, and her visage reflected that - only for a moment. She forced a smile, mind racing for an answer to give.

"It's stuffy in the dorms," she began. "Too crowded sometimes, I just need some time alone."

Madame Giry did not look convinced at all.

"Emina, there are rumors that you search for the Opera Ghost. That you believe you care for him." Her tone took a sudden serious note. "He is dead. And even if he were not," her eyes glinted, and Emina understood the secret between them. They both knew he was not dead. "If he were not, he is dangerous and you would be best to ignore the romantic notion you may have created about him."

Madame Giry knew nothing of Emina's past, nor that she knew Erik very well. Emina simply nodded, hoping to end this conversation as soon and easily as possible.

"You're not doing well in the show, I am going to have to dismiss you."

Emina felt dizzy. She had no alternative! "Please," she began desperately but Madame Giry silenced her with an upheld hand.

"I understand that you have little options otherwise, and I have found an excellent proposition for you. The DeChagny's are looking for... well. They would like for someone to spend time with Christine. To dance, sing, anything she'd like to do. She needs company." Madame Giry did not say aloud that they thought Christine was mad, but Emina (having been accused of the same thing many times) understood that was the meaning by the inflection of her voice.

"They offer room, board. A small stipend. Perhaps you will be more prepared for the next production."

With that, Madame Giry shuffled Emina out - giving her until the next morning to accept or reject the offer.

Emina found her way to her room in a daze. She had to leave! But where would she go? She felt such a deep resentment for Christine - the idea of living with her was ludicrous! Dropping into her uncomfortable bed, she groaned beneath the weight of her new burden. It would be a long night.

* * *

_One Month Later_

An entire month had passed. Emina had begrudgingly accepted the invitation to join Christine in the DeChagny mansion, and had since moved her things in. Since that time, she had only seen Erik once - and then it had only been for a brief moment before she was beckoned away again. Her heart was heavy and she longed for him, though he gave her little save his presence.

Currently, Emina was toying with a stack of jewels Christine had brought out.

"I want to make him proud, really. Help me choose." Christine had pleaded with her newfound friend. She and Raoul had been invited to dinner with a very important business partner, and Christine was (as was not uncommon) nervous.

Emina glanced upwards to the dress that Christine had chosen, and then down to the options. Since the time she had come here they had done very little dancing, or singing, or anything else even remotely related to the arts. Long hours were spent discussing the most notable gossip, until Emina felt as though a trip to the dormitories of the opera house would be a relief. When it seemed Christine tired of small-talk, she would return inevitably to the same subject. Erik. Christine did not have a name for him, and was quite fickle over him. At least half of the time she spoke ill of him, until Emina's blood boiled and she thought she would have to kill the girl on the spot. The other half, Christine mourned over his absence and lamented that they could not have been together. Christine was attracted to the mystery that was Erik, Emina felt that much for sure - but she could not bring herself to believe Christine loved him. Love was stronger than fear.

"These are splendid," Emina had muttered, in her meek role. She held up a pair of dangling diamonds. Christine bubbled like a child.

"Perfect!Oh Emina, what would I do without you?" Christine had hugged Emina, and then turned to dress just as quickly. As Emina watched Christine's servant, Jei, help dress her Mistress, she measured the girls beauty as though they were opponents. Christine was a bit shorter than Emina, and softer. Emina's muscles were lithe and toned, almost skinny. While Christine was undoubtedly beautiful and slender, her body was more curvaceous and supple. Almost more fragile, it seemed. Emina wondered if that innocence is what attracted Erik so fiercely to Christine.

"What were you thinking just then?" Christine queried, as she bustled about the room with Jei trailing after.

"Hmm?" Emina had responded. "Oh, nothing."

"You seem as distracted as I lately, Emina. I do hope someday you will learn to trust me as I do you, and share those things with me."

Emina cringed inwardly. How could she tell the woman in front of her that she was, too, in love with the beast that tormented Christine's mind with regret, longing, and abhorring? It could never be.

"I am fine," she said reassuringly as she stood. "Now go, your husband is waiting."

Besides, Emina had plans of her own tonight.

* * *

Relieved of her congenial duties, Emina took special time dressing this evening. The bounty of locks that she almost always allowed to fall freely about her shoulders, she pulled up in a more prim fashion - almost exactly as Christine had worn hers that evening. Her skin was darker, and nothing could be done about that - but she did smear a little bit of color onto her lips to lighten the deep cherry into a more pink pout. Quite nearly the same color Christine's lips boasted. After she had made as many efforts as she could to dress like her new companion, Emina had left the enormous house and walked alone toward the Opera Populair. It was still in ruins, but quite near to there Emina knew there was an entrance to the underground passageways. She took that path, and soon found herself turned about. She had taken a left when she should have a right, and instead she was situated beneath the new opera house. Frustrated, she turned and went the opposite direction - at last finding his lair.

Dealing with a ghost had certain consequences, and one of those was that sound seemed vile to Emina now. At least, evidence of coming and going. She had learned to stalk nearly as quietly as he could. With ease she slipped into his chambers, only to find him at the same desk she always did. Silently, small hands lifted to cover his eyes.

A silken blindfold suddenly shielded Erik from the work he had labored over. He lifted his head a bit, and expected that it was Emina. He had never known another human to approach him so frankly. However, the fragrance that filled his nostrils was a different sort of familiar. It smelled like the sweet perfumes Christine would wear. His hand lifted, capturing the delicate fingers within his own - but he did not open his eyes. If this were a dream come to life, he did not want to end it. He pulled the wrist closer, and took a languid breath inwards.

A wry smile tugged at his dark lips. The first kiss he had ever bestowed upon Emina came then, pressed almost awkwardly against that wrist. Emina gasped, and the sound broke his reverie. His eyes opened and he turned to see Emina. For a moment, disappointment flashed in his eyes and Emina felt jealousy strike her heart with cold envy. He gazed at her hair, then her lips, and even the dress she had worn. It all seemed such a remarkable resemblance.

"Lovely," he had offered quietly, perhaps the most kind word he had ever said to her. "Where have you been?" The roughness crept back into his voice, and had she not been so caught up in emotion Emina would have mused that she doubted the beast knew how to be proper with a lady.

"Busy. I was made to leave the opera house. I would have come, but things are more complicated now."

If he were being completely honest, Erik would have gone on to say that he had missed her, and was glad to see her. But at the moment he was distracted with the difference in her, not sure if he could put a finger on it. She seemed more subdued, more.. Child-like? Pristine? The wildness about her seemed.. Tamed.

"Complicated?" A nod of his head indicated the spot beside him upon the wooden bench, and without a thought Emina settled there. He still cradled her hand within his.

"I live in the DeChagny mansion now." She could think of no pretty words to say it, and so in honesty she simply blurted. She hesitated to explain why, but continued.

"They worry that Christine is going mad, and thought company would help her." Speaking of her with him like this made Emina very uncomfortable. She felt his grip tighten.

"The DeChagny...? Christine - mad? Why?" Erik had released her to be happy with her lover, at the peril of his own soul. Such a high price, for what? Her madness?

Emina hesitated.

"Tell me!" He demanded, a bit too roughly. He had released her hand, unaware of the wounds he was inflicting upon the courier of this message.

"She feels you, sees you, dreams of you, sings to you. Those are the happy moments. All of the other time, she fears you, worries that you are alive. She's present physically, but mentally she's usually in another place. You torment her."

Erik felt elated. And then dejected. Confusion followed. She thought of him! And then to fear him? What was he to do? Go to her, fulfill her desire for him? Surely if he did, the moment of fear would strike and then... what? Was he better off knowing this, or worse?

Erik stood, brooding. He was lost in the world of his own thoughts and so Emina simply settled to watch him. To try to bring him out of it would only anger him, and he would return to her eventually. She hoped.

After many moments, he became aware again that she was there. Absently, he extended a hand toward her - with an air of expectation. As though his command was hers to obey. Love compelled that obedience, and she moved to him. He slipped that arm easily about her waist and held her to him.

In all of their interludes, a single gesture of intimacy had not been exchanged. Over time, however, Erik had become extremely fond of the way her body felt against his and often liked to hug, to hold her, even sometimes to rest side by side. As she melted into his body, she sighed heavily. She knew that, even as he held her, he imagined Christine. Perhaps, though, she was not entirely right. Even as she thought that, he lifted his hand to release her hair from it's bonds.

"You are not her," he had said in a gentle tone, and Emina did not know how to take the sentiment. Did he prefer that she look like herself, or was he offended that she had tried to emulate his love?

To be in his arms, Emina felt as though she could weep.

"Erik?" she purred into his chest, fingers curling within his vest.

"Yes?"

"I am here. See me." The correction caused his eyes to flash as their gazes met. The look upon her face silenced him, though. His soul and spirit longed for Christine, but his body and his mind longed to pillage this creature who offered itself so willingly to the dark kiss of his affections.

"Emina," he had said, as if to affirm that he did indeed see her. She smiled at him, and it pleased him. Just as Christine had done in his dream, Emina lifted her pretty chin in beckon. He obeyed this one as well, dipping his head to kiss her.

Their lips brushed almost awkwardly at first, and he pulled back to look into her eyes. Perhaps she had not intended that at all. Instead, he found encouragement in her eyes and a smile on those lips. He allowed himself the pleasure of another, more languid kiss. Emina was more skilled than he, and guided him gently in the embrace. He found it intoxicating! The taste of her lips, the way her tongue danced against his - the salty heat of her mouth. He had only ever been kissed once before, and this time was void of the emotions which had distracted him then. Now, there was no fury or love to blind him to this. He was a man, and as a beautiful woman kissed him - he felt desire. Strongly.

"Emina," he had struggled to say against the assault of kisses she was now placing upon his lips and face. She paused. "I can not love you."

His words were cool, and put a damper upon the passions they both had willingly entangled themselves in. She had felt this before, though, and simply nodded.

"I can love you enough for both of us."

With that, he had resumed conquering her mouth with his kiss - becoming more empowered in this passionate embrace with each moment that passed. This was very new to him, but he liked it very much.

Their steps were blind as they found their way to his massive bed, her fingers having deftly unlaced his shirt and tugged it free of his trousers. He struggled with the corset, and ended up ripping it in his effort to disrobe her.

Once they were both free of all clothing, including the mask, they had spent hours exploring one another's body. Erik was a rough, and demanding lover - making Emina cry out in want, and then scream in pleasure. Erik found than it was easier than he had imagined to detach love from this situation. This was wonderful, and physical - but Christine and his love for her was locked away safely in his heart. For now, he had a beautiful gypsy in his bed. His to tame.


	8. Music

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* * *

"I should have cared for these better, the flesh wouldn't have left such a scar."

Erik stirred to the voice, even as he felt soft fingertips stroking the raised purple flesh upon his back. The width of it was covered with numerous scars, almost disfiguring it as well.

"Mmmph," he muffled into the pillow, then rolled more onto his side, both to detract this woman from her current quest and to respond freely. "You couldn't have known. We were children. Your kindness is what saved me."

Emina felt warmed by his words. Erik was scarcely gentle with her, and such a sentiment was to be treasured. The two lovers had spent the better part of the evening in a sensual dance, learning each others tune and rhythm. Now it was only hours before daybreak, and Emina had been roused first. The labyrinth which was his home made many sounds which caused her sleep to be restless.

"Do you ever wonder what might have happened, if they had never found us?"

Erik could sense her thoughtful mood and propped up on one elbow, fingers of his free hand tangling in the dark satin of his sheets.

"No. What is the purpose?"

Emina smiled a bit at his reluctance to delve into their past. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple. It felt awkward to him. The passion of the moment was gone, and now it felt odd to be in such a position with a naked (albeit beautiful) woman.

"I must go. She'll be in an uproar and have all of Paris looking for me, convinced you've stolen me away and had your way with me." Emina giggled a little, and it eased the scowl that had crossed the Phantoms face. "Or did you?"

With that, this little enigma that he could not seem to control sprang from his bed and dressed as quickly as she could manage. She clutched the torn part of her gown to her.

"I will see you as soon as I can mana..." she began.

"Tonight," Erik commanded, as he sat up. Emina stared at him for a moment, then consented with a gentle nod.

"Yes." She murmured. Smiled, and then left.

* * *

It was at least an hour later and the sun was beginning to kiss the early morning sky as she scuffled back onto the DeChagny proper. She thought she had managed to do so without drawing any unwarranted attention, but as she tiptoed up the stairs she heard the voice.

"Emina?" It was deep and gentle, not at all like the brusque and appealing harshness of the Phantoms'.

"Yes, Monsieur DeChagny?"

"Please, you've lived her for more than a fortnight and I've asked you many times to address me as Raoul."

Emina turned to face him. Before her was the worn face of a man who looked like sleep had completely evaded him as well.

"Are you not well?" Emina inquired, with a bit of genuine concern.

"May we speak?" Raoul stated, motioning toward his study.

Emina nodded and, hand still clutching her torn clothing, turned to follow him. He settled into a chair and motioned her to the other, reaching to stir the logs in the fire. The warmth felt delicious to Emina and she reached toward it to feel it kiss her fingertips.

"Does she speak of him constantly?" The question caught her so off guard that her head spun quickly in his direction, mouth agape. She caught herself and managed to gather some composure.

"Of who, Monsi... Raoul?"

"You don't need to try to protect me, Emina, I know. I share a bed with her and even there she utters his name. He excites her or haunts her, but it always seems to be him. Is she the same, with you."

Emina captured her lower lip betwixt her teeth and worried it there. How could she answer such a question, except honestly?

"Yes, quite often. But she also laments over you, Raoul, and the effect she knows that all of this is having on you. She really does love you." Emina added the last part hastily, and was not sure if she said it because she believed it or because it would benefit her most.

A heavy sigh came from the man across from her, and Emina felt a strong pity for him. He looked beaten and exhausted.

"What will you do?" She almost whispered, as though they had both been thinking the same thing. That something _must_ be done. Emina wasn't sure Raoul wound survive if something didn't change. But what?

"The Doctor has suggested some time away. In the country," Raoul uttered softly, glancing nervously over his shoulder toward the door behind - as if Christine would be listening in.

Emina felt surprised. All that she had heard of the asylums in the countryside of France was that they employed some rather questionable techniques for curing one of madness.

"I see," she managed calmly. Her mind was racing. How would this impact her? Where would she live, if Christine were to be sent away? How would it impact Erik? Would he try to follow? What about the pitiful man before her? In all of her worries, she mistakingly relaxed and dropped her hand from her bosom. The tear in her clothing opened, exposing the more delicate lace beneath and the luscious swell of her breasts.

As though he had been reading her mind, at least partially, Raoul commented. "You could, of course, stay here - until you had further arrangements, even if that is a decision I made. And of course you wou..." His gaze had flickered back up towards her, to assure her of his sincerity. He stopped mid-sentence as her exposed flesh came into view. He shifted uncomfortably. He and Christine were rarely intimate anymore, and each time they were he could not shake the idea that she was thinking of another - and so his wife scarcely interested him in that way anymore. He had known Emina was beautiful the day he met her, but only now did he feel tempted. How would it feel to touch her?

"Emina!" he proclaimed, worried. "What happened to your clothes?" Upon further inspection, he now seen marks and bruises that he had not, in his own worry, noticed prior. "Were you attacked?" He was standing now, ready to defend this poor girls honor.

A deep crimson flushed Emina's cheeks as she realized her mistake and hastily covered herself. She stood as well. "Oh, no Monsiuer! Raoul.. Really, just a silly accident. Please, I must excuse myself now."

The picture was entirely clear to Raoul as Emina brushed past, and instead of distaste for what he would consider an adulteress, he felt a rousing dose of longing. To have been the one to tear that scrap of clothing from her body. Raoul dropped into his chair again with a groan. Life seemed to become more complicated every day.

* * *

Erik could not sleep, no matter what lengths he went to in effort. He had tossed, and turned, and no matter what position he sought upon his comfortable bed - it seemed terribly empty. So this was what it was like to have a lover! He finally sat up, staring out over his domain. What would such an angel of light and goodness see in these dank cellars? In him? Perhaps it was some sort of cruel joke that she would eventually pull on him, taking away all the delight she was bringing. Erik shrugged that thought off in doubt, although he had made a note to be certain to guard his emotions. He could see how easily it would be to confuse them into the act. As he idly scanned the massive room, his gaze fell upon his organ. Abandoned. He had not touched it since the night that Christine had left. And why? She had taken everything, his life's blood from him. Why that as well? It was possible to find delight still, in other things, even in her absence. Emina had proved that to him. Why could he not have his music back?

Even steps carried him swiftly to it, and he caressed the keys with more gentleness than he had shown Emina's fair flesh. The first note to resound into the caverns plucked the strings in his heart, and sent physical pleasure through him. Oh, his music. How had he forsaken it? The cold, hard wall that he had erected about his heart began to be destroyed, one note at a time - as the beast began to play. His fingers felt alive, and electricity seemed to course through his veins. Erik played for what seemed like hours, and when he had finished - he wept.


	9. Loose Ends

Emina had hoped to avoid Christine in her effort to robe herself more appropriately. It was not to be so, as the room she had been given was directly adjacent to the DeChagny's and Christine heard her rummaging through her clothing. Without as much as a knock, she entered.

"Oh Emina, I was so concerned for you" I've been waiting up for half of the night. I wanted to tell you about the dinner party."

Emina had turned upon Christine, rather frustrated with this family by now. Emina herself looked bedraggled and exhausted. Her hair was rather mussed and her lips swollen in a pout from their rough treatment.

"Do tell," she murmured, as sweetly as she could manage, and then returned to her search.

"Oh" Christine exclaimed again. "You are hurt? Let me fetch the doctor," she scurried toward the door.

"No" Emina cursed, a bit too harshly. Christine started and gazed at her in shock.

"I'm sorry Christine, forgive my cruel tone. I am fine. Just an accident. I was out late, thinking. If you would only give me a short amount of time I will..."

"You have a lover?" Christine's audacity surprised Emina.

"I.. No. I mean.. What?"

"You have love marks all along your neck. You were with a lover?"

Emina sighed. What could she do but tell the truth? It seemed to be the shortest route to ridding herself of this inquisition.

"Yes, Christine. But you must tell no one" She knew that Christine loved secrets, and hoped to encourage her silence through manipulation.

"Of course," she bubbled, and instead of leaving, dropped onto the edge of Emina's bed. "Tell me about him Do I know him?"

Emina felt horrified that her plan had backfired. She dropped tiredly onto the bed as well.

"You do not know him," Emina lied blatantly. "He's a traveler. A visitor from my past. I've known him since I was only a child."

"Will you marry?"

Emina laughed aloud. "He is not the marrying type"

Christine smiled as though she understood, though her naivety was obvious. "He seems rough," she murmured with an excited curiosity, motioning towards the marks that marred Emina's body

"Yes. He does not realize his strength." Emina felt as though she should end this conversation as quickly as possible. "Tell me about your dinner," she plyed, although she had little interest in hearing about it.

For the next half hour Christine had rattled off a most boring exposition on the dinner she had Raoul had shared with one of the influential couples of Paris the night before.

"I think I felt him, as we left." Emina's attention returned.

"Who?" She queried.

"_Him_" Christine repeated.

"Christine, you need to stop this." Emina urged, this time sincerely. Erik had been securely captured within her arms, so she knew Christine could not have felt him. "Everyone is beginning to think you are mad. You are killing your husband Have you stopped to look in his face? He is exhausted, worried, and bewildered. You speak only of a phantom and never of your husband. Rumor has it you even moan in your sleep, for this angel of yours Do you know what they do with people who are mad?"

Emina was standing now, and Christine reeled back in surprise. Blush had stained her cheeks as Emina mentioned her dreams. She knew that to be true, she often dreamed of her angel. But madness?

"Who are you to speak to me of my husband? Why do you stare into his face, Emina?" Christine had finally arisen in a fury. Emina was beautiful, and while Christine had never worried about any attraction betwixt them, now that she stood before Emina - disheveled and sensual after making love, she felt less secure. It had been some time since she and Raoul had..

"Stay away from him"

With that, she stormed out of the room and as Emina followed her to the door, she saw Raoul standing in the corridor. She offered him an apologetic smile, and he simply shook his head and walked the other way.

What a mess.

* * *

"Emina.. Emina.. Emina" Was it the whisper, or the insistent nudging upon her shoulder that caused her to stir from her sleep? 

"What?" she had muffled gruffly.

"I am sorry." She squinted up to see Christine hovering above her. Only a few hours had passed since their fight and Emina had opted to sleep.

"It's fine," Emina whispered, and rolled back over.

"Help me, Emina. Help me end this."

Now interested, Emina sat up groggily.

"How?"

"Help me find him. I have to see him, to end this. I have to know. Angel or devil, beast or man. I need to tell him goodbye."

Emina felt nausea stirring in her stomach. Could she lead to her lover, the woman he loved? She would lose him.

"Christine, I..."

"Emina, please" Christine was near tears now. "No one else believes me. No one else can. I can tell you all that I know of him, and maybe you could ask around on the streets? You seem so resourceful. If you could just help me find the right direction to start looking in"

"What about Raoul? Will you lie to him?"

Christine looked downcast. "I am trying to restore myself, so that I can give him all of me.."

Emina sighed and nodded. Secretly, she suspected mostly that Christine would fear Erik and run again. Though the thought of subjecting him to such agony ripped at her heart, she was convinced that he would have to release Christine if she rejected him once more.

"Very well. Prepare yourself. In a few hours, we go."


	10. Reunion

**I hope you all are enjoying this still. Please continue to review, I thrive on it. Thanks to all those who are.**

* * *

Christine was confused even as she hurried to dress. Why did Emina seem so confidant that she could find him so easily? Christine had expected it to take weeks. Did she even know what she would say to him, if the gypsy girl managed to locate him? Her hands shook as she pulled her hair up. He had told her once that she looked like an angel with her hair that way.

A gentle knock upon Emina's door, and they were off. Emina seemed to be going in circles, and it wasn't until Christine was thoroughly confused that she pulled her into an alleyway and demanded she wear a blindfold from this point on. Christine had put up quite a struggle, but Emina had convinced it her was for her own good and then they continued onward - Emina leading Christine by the hand.

Christine could feel the warmth of day decreasing as they seemed to travel downwards, and then the dank smell of old sewage caused her to pull back. "Emina, where are we going?"

"Shhh," Emina had chided, and continued. It seemed hours passed before Christine could feel Emina stop. Emina pushed her against a wall and whispered quietly that she should, under no circumstances, remove the blindfold or move until she returned for her. Christine was shaking now, and simply nodded.

Emina stepped through the heavy drapery and allowed it to fall closed behind her. Erik was, as she always found him, busy at work. This time it seemed more frenzied, almost passionate. He glanced up as she entered, and smiled. Pangs of regret struck at Emina. She had made a mistake. She glanced behind her. Was it to late to retreat?

"Emina," he had said, in a tone of voice that made her quiver. She felt called to him, and so within a moment she was at his side, placing kisses upon his lips. He chuckled, and wrapped her in his arms, biting at her lower lip. For the moment, she completely forgot Christine.

Christine, meanwhile, had heard _his_ voice speak _her_ name. She had discarded the blindfold quickly and was peering into the too familiar caverns at the duo. She was flooded with emotion. There he wasཀ Her angel, her demon, her tormentor. There, also, was a woman she had thought she could trust. A confidant, she had imaginedཀ And the two were... kissing? Christine forgot her fear and erupted into the cavern.

"Emina" She had scowled loudly. The pair jerked apart, and as realization dawned in Erik's eyes, he cast a glower to Emina.

"You betrayed me," he hissed, and then turned to Christine. What should he say? Do? For once, the mastermind was clueless. Christine, meanwhile, had forgotten her jealousy (for the moment) and was staring in wonder at Erik.

"Erik, " Emina had whispered, pressing her hand to his forearm.

"How could you bring her here?" He hissed, though he did not look away from Christine.

"She asked me to." Emina replied lightly, and then turned to settle again on the bench they had shared so often. She was only a spectator now.

"What?" Erik, murmured, though the question seemed to be directed more towards Christine.

"Erik?" Christine's sweet voice spoke his name, and Erik thought his soul would shatter with the weight of it. To Christine, it was foreign. "Angel?"

The distance between the two of them was crossed, by slow steps each took. When they stood only arms length, Christine halted. She felt so confused! Fear and repulsion battled with a desire to touch him, feel him, _hear_ him again.

"Christine," he sighed.

"You...Emina...?" Christine felt, somehow, betrayed.

"I.. No." Erik responded simply, forgetting the woman behind him.

"You lied to me, Angel. Why?" Her face was contorted with confusion, and Erik longed to wipe those wrinkles away - the way he would have easily done to Emina.

"You could not.. Would not.. How could you have known, Christine? Look what happened when you did. You left me."

As the last few notes left his lips, a strength coiled in them. She had betrayed him! Why did he feel like a groveling fool now? "You made your choice," he added a bit more harshly, and then turned from her. It was only then that he seen Emina again, and the tears that threatened to spill over her lashes. He felt so torn. How could he deal with them both at once?

"Emina," he began, although he had no thought of how he would finish the sentence.

"So you took a gypsy to your bed?" Christine hissed, now raging upon him. Both Erik and Emina were surprised at her outburst, and turned to her.

"You will show her no disrespect" Erik felt weary. He did not know what each woman represented in his heart or mind, but he knew that Emina had treated him with a respect no other human had - and he would not allow anyone to berate her in his presence.

"You loved me" Christine's voice seemed more faltering, fearful, confused.

"Yes," Erik turned on her, capturing her chin in his grasp and forcing her face upwards.

"I love you, and I gave you my life. My music. And _you_ betrayed me. You made your choice. Why do you return?" His eyes searched hers.

"To tell you .. To tell you..." Christine could not finish, as his spell began to work it's magic upon her mind. Goodbye? How could she utter those words to her angel?

"I loved you, too. I do, I think. I can't get you out of my mind. You sing to me, I dream of you. Angel..." the last word was more of a purr, and then Christine thrust herself into his arms.

It felt so right to hold her there, so comfortable, and Erik was more skilled at holding a woman now. He wrapped her in his strong arms, and drank in her essence.

Emina watched this all with a certain numbness that Erik would have related well to. She had been mistaken. But what would come of it? What of Raoul? Tears did flow now, freely, along her pretty cheeks and she arose to go. The bench scraped across the stone floor as she did so.

The reverie was broken, and as Erik remembered Emina, things began to get confusing. What _did_ this mean? Christine was a fickle creature - would he have all of Paris chasing him to the gates of hell by morning? He grasped her shoulders and pushed her to arms distance.

"What do you want from me? Emina, stop." He added the last without as much as a glance towards her. She obeyed.

Christine searched his face with confusion. "I don't knowཀ"

Erik suddenly understood. The music in her soul had stopped, when she had chosen another.

Christine mourned not his loss, but the loss of his song. He set his jaw, and turned aside. "Leave, Christine. Your own mind tortures you, not I. You wonder what would have happened if you had chosen me. But you didn't! You rejected me. You rejected my love. You rejected my song. Now, it is my turn. Leave me." His heart struggled against his mind and his words lost their power near the end.

"Leave me, Christine. You do not love me."

Christine was weeping now, openly, even as she watched _her_ Angel turn from her - and reach for another woman. Emina did not meet Christine's gaze as he grasped at Emina's hand. She clutched his protectively, and lifted her gaze to his.

"She does not know the way, Erik. I must take her."

Erik seemed drained, and he simply nodded, then released her as well. He was angry with Emina, but scarcely had the energy to live it out at the moment. "Go," his brusque offered, and she consented.

"Foolཀ" Christine screamed. "You would reject me over her? A nothing? Does she sing for you, Angel?" Christine flew at him, clawing at anything she could grasp. His clothing, the flesh of his forearms, his face. Emina curled her arms about the tiny waist and attempted to pull her off of him. Erik tried to peacefully accomplish the same, but in the end sent both women sprawling to the floor with one swoop of his arm.

Madness had consumed the eyes he had once stared into with such longing, such love. He felt remorse for having caused her such pain. With strain in his voice, he uttered.

"Take her, Emina."

Emina struggled with the scorned woman, and managed to drag her from his lair - into the dark tunnels. There, she breathed a threat into her ear.

"Christine, I know you're upset, but listen to me. These tunnels lead to every foul place Paris offers, where unspeakable things happen to ladies of your station. Do not cross me, and simply come - else I will be forced to lead you in those directions."

Christine glared at Emina, and said nothing. Emina took this as an indication of agreement, and turned - leading Christine in a circular path throughout all of Paris until it would have been impossible for her to find her way back. Then, she led her upwards, and to the trouble that lay ahead.


	11. Empathy

**A/N - Sorry for the delay. Poor fanfiction wouldn't let me upload anything yesterday. At any rate, onwards we go.**

* * *

Raoul was in the dining hall, having just settled into his large chair at the head of the table. He had briefly questioned Jei as to Christine and Emina's absence, but had dismissed it. He had an odd sort of trust for the gypsy girl, and somehow felt that as long as the two were together all must be well. His peaceful meal was interrupted as his wife hurled herself through the doors, a distraught Emina on her heels.

"She's the devil's advocate, Raoul, and I will not have her in my house any longer"

"Christine, please" Emina attempted to calm her.

Raoul stood abruptly, tossing the fine linen napkin to the table.

"What is the meaning of all of this?"

"She knows him! She is his lover! She took me to him, back to that hell. She's a liar" Christine was yelling so loudly that by now, anyone in the residence had scurried toward the commotion. The hired help peeked in from every available doorway.

Emina bit at her lip. She had to find a way to squelch this, and quick.

"It was only a dream, Christine! Monsieur, we went for a carriage ride and Christine dozed off. She awoke in this state and I can't seem to calm her." Luckily, Emina had learned to lie well at an early age. She cast a deeply apologetic look toward Raoul.

Christine was outraged, her eyes widened in horror at Emina's words.

"You little witch!" She squealed, and cast herself at Emina. Emina fell beneath the weight, her head coming in contact with the edge of the table as she fell. She could feel the warmth on her skull and could only groan. For a moment she could not see Christine's face atop her, only a series of dots and stars.

Raoul was astonished at the scene that had unfolded before him so rapidly, and for a moment, was fixed to his spot. When the sound of Emina's head hitting the table resounded, his reverie was broken and he moved to action. With ease he lifted the struggling Christine from the wounded girl, and forced her into a seat.

"Christine," he hissed, the frustration he had since their marriage tinging his voice. "Stop this."

Christine ignored her husband, and attempted to launch herself through his arms.

"Marcus," Raoul called loudly over the shouting of his wife. "In the study, on the table. Bring it!"

The elder gentleman who had been watching from the doorway scurried off to do his Masters' bidding and returned only seconds later. Raoul released Christine, and soaked the cloth with the potion the doctor had left. By the time she had begun to assault Emina again, Raoul caught Christine about the shoulders and held her tight to his chest. He forced the cloth over her mouth and nose and with only a few inward breaths, his wife was unconscious. He lifted her body, and handed her over to Marcus.

"Put her to bed," he sighed, dropping down aside Emina.

Emina had seen the last bit of the struggle, and was now attempting to sit up.

"Please, Emina, forgive me. I did not realize she put you in danger. Here, let me.."

Before Emina could say anything, Raoul had picked her up as well. This time, he made it a point to deliver her safely to her bed. A handmaid scurried after with water and ointment to mend her wound.

Raoul carefully settled her atop her blankets, then reached behind to inspect the gash on her head.

She winced as he touched it, and he guided her cheek to rest against his shoulder.

"It's deep, and may require stitching. Jei, call the doctor. Meanwhile, I'll hold the cloth." That said, he pressed a cloth tightly to the wound and allowed her to relax into the pillow.

"Monsieur, I'm fine, really.." Emina began, preferring to be alone to try to figure out the implications of all of this.

"Raoul, please call me Raoul." His deep blue eyes seem to plead with her, making Emina somewhat uncomfortable. She nodded her consent.

"Raoul," she murmured softly, and he smiled at her.

"I think I will send her with the doctor, for some treatments. This is getting out of hand. I am sorry I involved you in all of this, I thought it would help if.."

Emina reached for his free hand and patted it lightly.

"Do not apologize, Mon.. Raoul. I will gather my things and be out of your way in a day, if that is soon enough.."

"Do not be ridiculous! Of course, I would have to come up with some reason to keep such a lovely lady in my presence in my wife's absence, but we could create some sort of facade. I will not see you on the streets because of my wife's.. foolishness. You will stay here."

Emina suddenly felt very feminine, and realized they were alone. She blushed.

"Thank you, Raoul.."

Raoul smiled again, and Emina could see the boyish charm that must have appealed so much to Christine. Here, sitting at the edge of her bed, was a man that was as much opposite from Erik as any human could be. His entire being exuded a gentleness and gaity, as opposed to Erik's brooding and roughness. What a decision Christine had been faced with!

Raoul watched as the blush faded from Emina's face, and without thinking, reached to stroke one of her cheeks' idly with his thumb.

"You're beautiful, Emina" he muttered, his voice lower - more of a forced whisper. He watched as she squirmed beneath his compliment and even averted her gaze, but she did not seem entirely displeased. She was beautiful, and bright, and alive - and present. Everything his wife seemed to lack in her current state of lunacy. Raoul wondered if he really desired the woman before him as much as his mind had convinced him, or what she represented?

"The doctor will be here momentarily, I will check for him." The same tone offered these words, and then he released the cloth behind her head. He leaned and pressed his lips to her forehead, savoring the feel of that soft flesh beneath his kiss. With a sigh, he turned, and left the room.

Emina closed her eyes, and sighed.


	12. The Phantom's Kiss

**A/N - Beloved readers, I appreciate each and every review even if I cannot find time to reply to them all. I am thrilled that you are enjoying this saga!**

**We are nearing the end of the pre-written portion of this story, so I am afraid it may start to take nearly a week between each update! Oh no! Worry not, though. I am typing as fast as life will allow me. :)**

**Review review!**

* * *

Erik had spent the two days following Christine's sudden arrival in his lair pacing. His emotions and thoughts were completely jumbled. He could hardly pick one apart without being overwhelmed with another. He had hardly slept, and was very disheveled.

Christine had been so beautiful, and felt so perfect in his arms. He had had her within reach, and let her go! No, forced her to go! What kind of fool was he? But Emina had shown him something different. How it felt to be sincerely admired, and a forced or fooled sort of love seemed to pale in comparison. Christine only loved his song and it made him feel sick to imagine having to constantly wind a spell over her weak mind to convince her she loved the man as well. On top of all of it, he missed Emina. Her sweet lips and melodic voice had become to balm for his weary soul and he longed for her. In the same moment, he would become angry with her. She had betrayed him! She had led another to his home, and the very person who was his weakness? Why? He could make no sense of it. When these thoughts had tortured him until he could handle it no more, he decided to venture out of the safety of his cave-like dwelling onto the streets above. It was easy for him to trace his way back to her house, he had been there only weeks before - watching her in her window.

This time, however, a different scene would greet him. As he hovered in the darkness, he seen Christine (who seemed somewhat ill) being ushered into a carriage by a man he recognized to be one of the local medical practitioners. Concern arose within him, but he fought the urge to hurry forward and make sure his little angel was well. Instead, he watched as the Doctor and Raoul spoke briefly, coins were transferred, and then the carriage departed. As Raoul retreated into his home again, just before the door was closed, Erik could see his gypsy staring outwards - watching the carriage depart as well. She was clothed in a dress a bit above her usual garb, and seemed so different in it. She smiled at Raoul as he entered, and Erik felt jealousy course through him. Both women who mattered at all in his life, under the same roof with that man! If he had ever hated... Erik quelled the thought. Now was not the time. He glanced upwards. At just past dusk, he knew it would be hard dark soon and he would wait until then. He would see her. Tonight.

* * *

Emina rustled beneath her covers. It was difficult to get comfortable with the constant throbbing in her head. The lights were dim in her small room in the DeChagny estate, and she could see the twinkling of stars out of her window. They reminded her of him, so majestic and unreachable.

The shadows at the far end of the room seemed to move, but Emina did not notice. Again, they shifted - until finally a form stepped out from them. Emina opened her mouth to scream, but the sound froze in her throat.

"Erik," she sighed in relief, though he did not seem as pleased. Realizing their locale, she sat up hurriedly - and then groaned, reaching to cradle her stitched skull. "You should not be here," she whispered.

"Neither should you," he countered cooly. "What happened to your head?" By now he was at her side, perched upon the edge of the bed. He reached to touch it, and she drew away.

"Christine nearly killed me," she muttered in distaste, and immediately regretted the tone. She felt great pity for the woman, who had been ushered off to an asylum only hours before. Erik frowned, and canted his head to see the wound. It was long, and quite deep - but the doctor had done an excellent job with his stitching.

"Where did they take her?" Emina was, at least for a moment, surprised that he knew Christine was gone at all. Realizing her mistake, she simply commented..

"To an asylum."

Erik recoiled, leaving his position upon the bed to pace at the foot of it.

"Fools! I did not realize her mind was so fragile. You should not have brought her, Emina. Why?"

Emina had answered that very question before and felt that this time it was posed in rhetorical fashion. She remained silent and allowed him to continue.

"I'll need to know where. And you must leave here, Emina."

"I have no where to go, Erik. I will leave, in a few weeks perhaps. I need that long to figure out..."

"**_Now!"_** Erik boomed.

Emina shuddered. He had never used that tone with her, and it echoed in her head and made her feel somewhat nauseous. Once the sensation had passed, she felt anger well within her.

"What would you have me do! Return to the streets? Become a whore!" Emina was yelling now, and it was only a matter of time before they were discovered. Erik found his calm much quicker than his hot-tempered gypsy, and was at her side quickly. He pressed his fingers to her lips.

"Arrangements will be made. You will not stay here with him."

Emina could feel the anger seething from Erik, even as he silenced her own. The hatred ran deep between those two men, and she felt somehow caught in the middle of it all. She simply nodded.

"Two weeks."

Erik's eyes flashed, but the brazenness in Emina's own gaze silenced him. "Fine." He stood quickly again, a sweep of his arm causing his cloak to snap at the air behind him. Footsteps began to sound on the steps outside of her room.

"I'll see you before then," Erik promised. Or was it a threat? At any rate, he paused by Emina long enough to dip his head and take a fierce kiss from her lips. Left breathless, Emina could only stare as he disappeared into the same shadows from whence he came.

Not without a minute to spare, too. As soon as the last flicker of his cape was swallowed by ebon, her door was pushed open - albeit gently.

"Emina? I thought I heard voices. Are you well?"

Raoul's gentle voice seemed haggard, tired. Emina struggled to regain her composure.

"Yes, Raoul. I was.. Having a .. Nightmare. A bad dream, that is all."

Raoul nodded, stepping in. Emina clutched the bedcovers and pulled them a bit higher. Pinkened tongue stroked her lips, as though the kiss just placed upon them were visible and she could wipe it away.

"I hope he doesn't haunt your dreams as well," Raoul said.

"No, other things.. "Emina consoled.

"Emina... I... " Raoul shifted as though the weight of the world were upon his shoulders, and words would not obey his command. Emina furrowed her brow in question.

"Yes?"

Raoul seemed to struggle for several more minutes, and then finally gave up.

"If you need me, I'll be just in the other room. Please call. I hope your dreams are more pleasant."

With that, he excused himself and Emina was left alone to slump into the welcoming covers.

"Erik?" she whispered several times, and when there was no response, she drifted off to sleep. Erik watched her for several hours, and then set out on his new mission. He must find where they had taken Christine too. He had to set things right.


	13. The Gypsy Secret

**Thank you for all of the reviews. Please continue to do so, I greatly appreciate each thought you share.**

**This marks the end of our pre-written portion. Updates may only come once a week or so now, regretfully.**

* * *

Paris had two sides. One was opulent, lavish, and upper-class. Wine seemed to flow freely in this Paris, and there was always something of social appeal. Another Paris consisted of liars and thieves, poverty, and peasants. It was through this Paris that a bedraggled gypsy strolled, kicking at the filth that littered the streets.

It had been years since Orlo had been to Paris, probably close to ten. He had been a moderately wealthy Romano then, having the most lucrative business within his clan. He had held a position of superiority, as within their traveling bands the one with the most money was often the most influential. It was here that his little empire had shattered, however. The primary source of his income, a fiery little brat he had purchased off of his 'friend' the night before his murder, had manage to escape his grasp here. He had spent the better part of six months looking for her, and when he failed - he moved on. Life had been hard since then, and he had gone hungry more than once. A life that used to be filled with frivolty and drinking was now a burden, and he made his living as a common thief.

It was his 'job' that called him away from these slums and towards the clean and tidy heart of Paris on this mid-day. Rumors had circulated about the rich that were coming from far and wide to attend the opening night of the Opera's new showing. Orlo had little taste for singing at all, much less something as decadent as opera. His intent was to find a hefty purse to steal, and perhaps fill his belly for more than a day at a time. He stuck out quite a bit, his clothes dirty and his hair greasy. He came first to the market, and began to weave his way through the vendors stands - stealing an apple along the way. The woman manning that cart yelled after him, and when no one paid any heed, she simply cursed him and went about her business. Orlo watched the ladies, mostly servants, picking through the crop. As he did, a familiar face crossed his path. The beautiful young woman did not look up as she passed him, only continued on - pausing to pursue the grape stand. Orlo squinted against the bright sun. It couldn't be her. Could it?

Emina seemed so regal, dressed in the fine clothing of the upper-class, and with a following of servants around her. She spoke and they all laughed. Emina did so as well, and when her full face had come into view - Orlo felt sick. It _was_ her! The little wench who had ruined his life. He stomped toward her, catching himself after only a few paces. Whatever she was doing now, she was obviously one of _them_. If he tried to apprehend her now, he would never succeed. No, it was necessary to use patience (which he had a very short supply of) here. Orlo bit into the apple roughly, and disappeared into the crowd once more. He would follow her home, and then make his plans. One thing was certain, she would not escape this time.

* * *

Christine had only been gone two days, but already Emina felt a great deal of freedom. Raoul had quickly fabricated a farce of an employment. She was now a servant in his domain, though it had been made painfully clear to all of his other employees that she was to be addressed as much as their superior as he was. She chose whatever duties she wished to fill her time, or none at all. The most pleasant one, in her estimation, was taking a few of the ladies to market. The air was so open and free and it seemed all of the suppressing worries were lifted from her soul in the din of humanity.

Today was no different. She had spent much of the afternoon searching the different stalls and stands for a beautiful array of fruit. The ladies who accompanied her were simple minded but endearing, and Emina had made it her goal to bring laughter from them as much as she possibly could. She had been quite successful. It was the gales of laughter that surrounded her that drowned out the tell-tale sounds of the man following her. She disappeared within the mansion, not knowing what danger lurked just outside it's doors.

"Margeurite, please deposit all of these things in the kitchen. Tell cook not to prepare them, I would like to myself." The younger girl had smiled at her and nodded, scampering off toward the kitchen with the parcels in tow. It was nearing evening now, and Emina wished to freshen up before Raoul arrived home.

The cool water felt good upon her face as Emina lifted it in her hands. She changed into a clean dress, the current one laden heavily with dust. She hurried to draw the mass of curls back from her gaze, and then made her way into the kitchen. Good-natured banter filled the air between herself and the primary cook, as Emina herself washed and sliced the rich array of fruits she had purchased. She had just finished preparing a special treat, when a familiar face shadowed the doorway.

"The Master is home," Margeurite had popped in long enough to say, and then disappeared again. Emina smiled, lifting the platter she had prepared. She wound her way to his study easily, and knocked lightly.

"Yes?" Came his tired voice, assuring Emina that this was indeed a thoughtful idea.

"Raoul? May I come in?"

It may have been a bit too quickly that he appeared at the door, opening it to her. He closed it behind her with a soft click, surveying the burden in her arms.

"Emina, I insist upon reminding you that your status as a servant in my home is only a farce. You musn't do things like this." Raoul was scolding her, she realized, and could not help but laugh. He seemed taken aback. No one had ever been brazen enough to laugh at him in the midst of a correction! How did one respond to such an affront?

"I _chose_ to prepare these things, just for you. To cheer you up." Emina offered a beautiful smile, and Raoul felt desire twitch within him again. _Just for you_, she had said. Had Christine ever done anything so thoughtful, just for him?

"Well," he managed after a moment's silence. "Let us indulge, then! Tell me, what is this in the center?" Raoul settled one of the two large chairs before the fireplace. Emina placed the tray upon the table separating the two, and settled opposite him.

"A gypsy secret," she winked playfully. Raoul chuckled, and the sound was odd. It had been so long since he had laughed.

Emina waited until he had reached for a grape and popped it into his mouth, before she delved into the food as well. Strawberries were her favorite, he observed, if her choices were any indication. Each piece of fruit she procured, she would dip into the white substance in the center - and then pass through her ruby lips with obvious pleasure, and an occasional mew.

"Paris has such delectable fruit, I must admit," she murmured, to fill the silence. In watching her, Raoul had forgotten to eat. She exuded an energy he had once felt. He had even felt it in Christine. It had long gone cold within his chest. Emina took his silence for disapproval and stalled as well.

"I am sorry, Raoul. I should not have assumed you were ready for company. I just wanted to cheer you up, I am sure this must be difficult and -"

Her words were cut off as he lifted a hand to silence her. Emina obeyed awkwardly, and he smiled. He reached for a slice of melon, and popped it into his mouth.

"It is delicious, thank you." He noticed then that her hair was swept back. Typically it was unruly and fell about her wildly, making her seem seductive and dangerous. Now she seemed more demure, and lady-like. Secretly, he desired to brush the locks from their constraints and find the wild young girl in her once more.

Seeming to sense his pensive mood, Emina stood abruptly. She passed in front of him, murmuring softly.

"I will leave you, Raoul. Please enjoy.."

Raoul caught her by the wrist, standing as well.

"I have not yet tasted the gypsy secret," he muttered, in a tone Emina had never heard him use before. It was laden with desire, and she shuddered. Erik would kill them both if he found them in this situation.

Raoul, meanwhile, had dropped his gaze to her full lips. There an errant drop of the treat Emina had prepared for him had fallen unknown. Without warning, he dipped his head and claimed the sugary flavor with a flicker of his tongue. Emina was too shocked to move, and Raoul mistook that for consent. He kissed her then, and while it was certainly passionate and searching - it was more calm and gentle than Emina imagined Erik could have managed. If anything it seemed.. subdued.

The kiss lasted a long moment, before Emina finally had the presence of mind to pull away. Shocked, her gaze met Raoul's and she could read the lust in them.

"Monsieur!" She scolded, stumbling backwards a pace. The light in his eyes only dimmed, he stepped after her.

"I only assumed," he muttered, gesturing toward the bruises teeth had left upon her throat.

Emina had only tenderness in mind when she prepared this snack for Raoul. She feared that Christine had never showed him much affection and while she certainly did not want to step into that role, she felt that he deserved something. He was being so kind to her, and he had just lost his wife in odd circumstance. The well-meaning behind her thoughts vanished, however, beneath the fury that had risen within her at his insinuation.

"You only assumed!" She cried, eyes wide. "What did you assume, Raoul? That because I have a lover I am a whore? You assume that I could not have a love for, and fidelity with my lover? That I would fall into your bed?"

Words failed then, Emina too angry to think properly. She had spun from the room, slamming the door behind her. Raoul had stared after her for a while, and then slumped into his chair. Just as he drifted off to tormented sleep in a terribly awkward position, he could have sworn the shadows laughed at him.


	14. Interlude

**A/N - I am so sorry! I know it has been terribly long since my last update. Everyone in my house had the flu, twice, and then I was swamped with schoolwork. UGH. So at any rate, I am back into the groove now I hope. This is a rather short chapter, but please remember that I am now writing this as we go. It will be a bit slower.**

**Please, please review.!**

* * *

Moving one's belongings to a new dwelling is not such a difficult task when there is little to take. Emina had prepared her things before dawn, and managed to use a bit of her meager savings to hail a cab. Most of the bags fit inside with her, but a few of the larger pieces were visible outside the vehicle. In the busy streets of Paris this would not have garnered much attention. An exception, however, would be made if someone were watching your every move.

Orlo, filthy and by now quite hungry, had been lingering about the Chagny estate for some days, watching Emina come and go. He knew it was only a matter of time before he could properly assail her, and claim her. The burly man was not thinking very logically, of course, because things had changed so much since their last fateful meeting. Emina was no longer a weak child, but a grown woman. Life was not so simple, he could not simply return to his previous _career_, but he had not thought that far ahead. Something more sinister was his driving force. Revenge.

Emina, quite unsettled by the events of the night before, was trembling as she mounted the ride, oblivious entirely to her surroundings. She did not notice the menace that followed behind as they wound through the streets, toward the Opera Populaire.

* * *

Erik was hungry. That in itself was quite an oddity, as the man scarcely ate and never succumbed to such a human feeling. He was disgusted with himself, caring not that it had been nearly a week since any real sustenance had entered his body. Nor did he factor in the exhausting work he had been doing, riding as fast as his horse could manage into the rough countryside. Once Emina had left the clutches of Chagny, he had felt free to pursue Christine. It had not taken much to find the carriage driver who had delivered her, and to force the information from the man's lips. In the direction he had been given, Erik immediately set out.

_What is your aim?_ A familiar voice taunted him.

"I have to set things right," Erik muttered into the wind, clenching the reins tighter. The voice inside his head seemed to laugh.

_Impossible! She pledged her love, she wanted you and you rejected her. You sent her to that **boy**, and look what he has done! It's all your fault! You've ruined her!_

Erik scowled, an audible murmur of frustration parting his parched lips.

"Shut up!" he hissed into the night, and the voice obeyed. At least for now.

Ahead Erik could see the lights of a small town coming into view. Undoubtedly there would be a small inn at least, where he could rest his horse and find some food. As much as he hated to admit that he shared the same needs as those around him, he forced himself to do so. Christine needed him desperately, and without his strength he would be unable to reach her.

* * *

Christine could only feel cold. Hours ago her fingers had tingled painfully, and now she could not even feel them. No matter how she thrashed or screamed, they would not listen. It only seemed to convince them further that she was, indeed, insane. As a female orderly had entered, she had attempted to calmly explain her plight to the woman. When she spoke of Erik, of her love, of Raoul, the words got jumbled and Christine found herself confused. Was she confessing her love for Erik, or Raoul? Which was true?

A drug induced haze was now settling over her, the vision of the young woman with pity in her eyes now gone. Christine could not feel the stiff blankets atop her, or the material binding her wrists and ankles to her small cot. She only felt cold, and terribly alone. Ahead in the darkness she could see him.

A small laugh escaped her.

"Erik," she murmured, unaware of the team observing her in her stupor. They jotted notes hastily and whispered amongst themselves. Christine took no notice. The form of Erik seemed to smile, and it made her feel warm at last.

"I love you," she murmured through her tears, frail body beginning to shake again.

"Shhhh," he stated, stepping to her. He brushed the curls away from her damp forehead, and pressed an affectionate kiss to it.

"I am coming, Christine. I am only a day or so away. I will take you from here, all will be well."

Christine could only smile for a long moment, and then as he stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles, she spoke.

"You'll save me, yes? Yes, Erik. You're coming for me."

With that the patient slipped into unconsciousness again, and the medical team that left hurriedly could not comprehend the fate that was about to fall upon them all. What had been written in a chart as delusions was about to become their worst nightmare.


	15. Escape

**A/N - It thrills me to no end that you all are enjoying this story as much as I have. Out of everything I've written, this is my baby. I apologize for the delay in updates. Spring Break proved to be more of a hindrance than a help! At any rate, we've got less than ten chapters left. I'm not sure how many yet, this is one of those strange stories that sort of write themselves and I am not sure how detailed some of the events still to happen will turn out. **

**I hope you continue to enjoy and review. You make all the difference!**

* * *

Emina found it difficult to see through the tears that blurred her vision. She was there at last, safely nestled within the protective walls of Erik's own abode. Her things were scattered carelessly within the main room, and now she perched upon the edge of the bench at his prized instrument. A heavy sigh escaped her.

The entire place was filled with him. While this may seem obvious, Emina had not prepared herself for the forcefulness of it all. It overwhelmed her. His scent lingered in the air, and she could almost taste his kisses from it. His things were scattered all about, sketches and music, books and more. The most disturbing find, however, had been a stack of sketches atop the piano itself. Not intending to disturb or pry, Emina had glanced through them out of mere curiosity. Any glimpse into his mind was welcome, and Emina longed to see what had captivated his attentions. All that she found were glorious portrayals of an angel. _Christine. _Christine was beautiful in a way that Emina would never be. Fair skin and wide eyes, an innocence that surrounded her. Emina had known she was beautiful, of course, but Erik had managed to capture the younger girls features and perfection in a way she would not have dreamed possible. It was this reflection that pierced her to the quick, and she realized that his heart would never belong to her.

This revelation had led her to sit for hours, alone, and simply stare out onto the dark lake. When she could take it no longer, she drew her cloak about her shoulders and headed upwards. Some fresh air would certainly clear her mind, and then she could decide what must be done.

* * *

Erik was up before the sun. He had managed to acquire from the innkeeper last night all of the information he needed. He was only a full day's ride away from the clinic that housed Christine. His horse had been fed and rested, and now he was eager to complete the journey. He would have an hour or so before sunset once he arrived, and that would be just enough time to get a feel for the building, to plan his infiltration.

As he rode, the dust stinging his nostrils and clinging to his cloak, Erik continued to wrestle with his inner demons.

_What will you do with her when you find her? She belongs to **him**!_

"It would not matter if she belonged to Satan himself," he spat into the wind, "no one will mistreat her."

_So you will steal her away then? Take her from her husband? Make an adulteress of her?_

To this Erik could simply growl. He did not have a plan beyond rescuing Christine from whatever torment she must be enduring. She had asked to stay with him, been furious with him for sending her away. Perhaps she would choose him? Divorce DeChagny and become his bride?

_Emina…_

"What about her?"

_She loves you. She's the only one to ever love you. She came for you, and forced you to accept her love. Will you destroy her in the same way they have always destroyed you? Inflict upon her the same wounds Christine did to you?_

Perhaps it was the wind, but the eyes of the Phantom himself were glossy as he rode through mid-day, skirting along the edges of the forest so that he would not be seen. When had his life become so complicated?

Tormented by thoughts outside of his control, Erik finished his journey in relative misery.

* * *

To be a Vicomte was certainly not an easy task. Not as difficult as Philippe's position, Raoul admitted to himself, but the demands were still constant. Piles of paperwork had been abandoned atop his desk, and Raoul had managed to offend at least half of the Parisian upper-class by refusing to attend their events in his wife's absence.

Now he sat at his desk, staring into the glass of brandy he was swirling about within his hand.

A knock at the door broke his reverie.

"Enter," he slurred mildly, and tried to recall just how many times he had emptied this glass.

"Monsieur," his butler stated politely, as he stepped in. "A letter as arrived. From the doctor. A report on Madame DeChagny, I presume."

Raoul sat up straighter, running his hand back through his touseled hair.

"Well, give it to me then."

The man did so, and Raoul ripped it open unceremoniously.

_Dear Vicomte,_

_It is with great pleasure that I write to inform you that much_

_progress has been made in your wife. The treatments we_

_have given her are proving quite effective, and her entire_

_demeanor is much improved. I should caution you against_

_visiting with her, however. We have found in most cases _

_that such a visit only causes regression. It will be several_

_weeks yet before we would permit such an audience._

_Please be assured that she is in the best care possible_

_and that we will inform you as soon as you are welcome._

_Doctor Thoreau_

If only the Vicomte could have known how untrue those words were.

* * *

Darkness was falling, and Erik's fingers twitched with anticipation as he crouched down near the gate of the facility. He had hidden his horse more than half a mile back in the bramble, hoping to avoid detection. On foot he had examined the hospital, and discovered that getting in would be quite simple. There was relatively little security. The building was equipped with strange catches and latches however, that he would have to remember to protect himself against. If he did not, he would find it impossible to get _out_ of the building. Either way, he would begin his mission within a few short minutes.

When the majority of lights along the corridor had darkened, the ghost made his move. As he had assumed, getting in was merely an effort of opening the right doors. He found Christine's room within moments and slipped into the dark chamber silently, careful to leave the door slightly ajar. When he turned his gaze toward the bed, he felt his heart quake within him.

Christine, his angel, looked near to death. She was as pale as the cold sheets draped over her, and her face was streaked with dried tears. Her lips were parched and split, and her hair was mussed carelessly, and streaked with blood. Delicate arms and legs were bound crudely to the bed, and by the marks upon her arms it was obvious that the diabolical practice of bloodletting had been their choice of treatment. Erik felt a dangerous anger swell within him, and he had to muster all the strength within him to prevent himself from storming into the hall and killing everyone he could get within his grasp.

Instead, with trembling hands, he reached to touch her cheeks.

"Christine," he breathed, a prayer for forgiveness whispered into her hair.

The patient roused, and looked up at him with glassy eyes. A delirious sort of smile curled her lips.

"I told them, Erik. I did.." and then she began to laugh.

Erik pressed a finger to her lips, shushing her.

"Shhh, angel. I will take you away from here, but you must remain absolutely silent. Do you understand?"

Christine giggled again, even as she nodded her head. Obviously she had been drugged as well, and the malice that burned in Erik's veins was almost uncontrollable. He focused his attentions upon releasing her frail ankles from their binding, and then her wrists as well. Her arms automatically went to his shoulders, encircling him. He attempted to disentangle himself from her.

"I need to dress you, Christine. You must wear more than this outside."

She would hear no reason, simply burying her face against his throat and clinging with all of her strength to him.

"Please, angel. Do not leave me."

Realizing that he would be unable to convince her otherwise, Erik hefted her easily into his arms. He awkwardly managed to drape his own cloak about her lithe form, before he cradled her even more tightly against him. As they left the building, Christine had begun to sob. Erik assumed the effects of the drugs were wearing thin, and his speculations were confirmed as he heard the chaos break out behind him. Probably intending to give her another does, the attendant on duty had discovered her absence and now the entire clinic was being roused by the frantic yelling and the sound of alarms.

They scarcely made it through the gate before it ground to a close behind them, and Erik strained with all of his strength to run through the shadows toward his horse. Christine held as tightly as she could manage and wept into his chest, apparently oblivious to the current circumstance.

"God," he breathed in desperation. "If you truly exist at all, only let me get her to safety."

As if in answer, the night seemed to swallow them as his horse came ambling toward them. The tether seemed to have been chewed through. Erik breathed a sigh of relief and lifted both himself and Christine easily onto the mount. Once he had nestled her comfortably in front of him and ensured she was properly covered, he urged his horse away from the terrible place as quickly as it could canter.

It would take at least several days to make it back to Paris, perhaps longer considering her current state. Protective arms tightened about Christine as he considered the dangers they would surely face, as a hunt went out for their escaped patient.

Even if it took his last breath, he would let no harm befall her.


	16. The Past

**A/N - I think this is fixed, finally. There was a really weird repeat thing going on. The file was perfect when I uploaded it, but then the text would repeat on here a few times. Strange.**

**At any rate, here's the next chapter. Be patient as I plunk along, and I hope you continue to review.**

**(As a side note, three cheers for my-echo's return!)**

* * *

It was nighttime when Emina reached the surface. Already she had lost all orientation of time, and she wondered how Erik managed to keep up at all. Thinking of him only caused the aching within her chest to increase, however, and she took a deep and shuddering breath to calm herself. It was a bit chilly out, and her breath left a small cloud before her as she exhaled.

"Damn you," she murmured to the unseen, as she began her walk away from the entrance to his home. After she had walked several blocks, Emina felt a familiar awkwardness. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and she felt as though someone were watching her. A quick survey of her surroundings did little to relieve her. There was only shadow, and she could not tell what might lurk in it. Suddenly she felt unsafe and vulnerable. Having wished she had not left the safety of his home, Emina turned to retrace her steps and find her way back to his haven.

She did not travel far, however, before a grimy hand shot out to entangle her. She screamed shrilly, but the sound was stifled as those thick fingers found their way over her mouth. Nearly cutting off all breath, Emina forced herself to calm down enough to survive. Her nostrils flared, taking in precious oxygen frantically. Her assailant was going to kill her.

Emina was dragged into the darkness of an alley, and found herself shoved against the stone wall of the building they had neared. She grunted at the impact, but suddenly found herself free from the hands of her captor. Instinctively she turned to flee. Rough hands found her throat again, however, and shoved her once more into the wall. She could feel her flesh bruising beneath this attack, and attempted to stifle her cries of complaint. The man lifted her until her toes barely brushed the ground. Helplessly she clawed at the hands about her throat, darkness beginning to cloud her vision. Just as she thought she would slip into unconsciousness, the hold released. She crumpled into a pile, only able to see the mans feet as she gasped for air – fingers stroking her own injured throat as if they could open up the passages even more. Unprepared for the blow that would follow, Emina could not help but scream as the toe of those boots crushed her ribs in a brutal kick. She was tossed onto her back by the momentum, and found she could scarcely move against the pain that exploded within her mind. She still had not seen her assailant's face.

As if realizing that his work was without recognition, the man crouched down beside her and grasped her face roughly. Turning it toward himself, he began to laugh. Emina stiffened immediately, recognizing the sound.

"No, no." she whimpered, again attempting to free herself from his hold.

"Emina," he murmured in a slur. "You've grown up." He dropped his hand to grip roughly at her breast, and the lust that laced his voice was enough to make Emina feel nauseous.

"No!" she cried, jerking away forcefully. He let her go, only to laugh mockingly as she found herself trapped between him and the wall.

"Yes, little dove. You were quite cruel to run off on Orlo, weren't you? You left me to rot, to nothing. But not anymore. Oh no, you will make it all up to me."

Emina had started to weep. Silently at first, in salty tears that fell down her face. As Orlo stood and hefted her up over his shoulder, her sobs became vocal. All strength was drained and her body was filled with pain. Fear caused her to shake and she felt as though the curtain of her life was being drawn. She could not live like that again, she could not!

"Erik!" she cried out into the dark night, just before Orlo dealt her a blow to send her into darkness.

* * *

"Christine, you must eat." Erik urged quietly, as Christine stirred upon the bed. They had found lodging at the very same Inn he had in the nights before. Christine had slept quite fitfully on the bed, while Erik had watched her from his chair. Now the sun was nearly set once more and he knew that they must continue on their way. Word was traveling quickly about the patient that had escaped, and he knew they must stay ahead of the public awareness. Christine sat up suddenly, blinking in an exaggerated manner. It was as though she could not believe what she seen.

"It was not a dream," she murmured in disbelief.

"No," Erik replied simply, gesturing toward the tray full of food near her bedside.

"Eat," he commanded again. Christine seemed to dismiss the notion as she tossed her legs over the side of the bed. She did not realize that she was somewhat scantily clad in nothing more than the thin gown they had permitted her at the asylum. Her slender and shapely legs were exposed, and Erik could not help but gaze at them. Christine was so beautiful. Feeling such a desire for her caused him great discomfort, however. Primarily he cursed himself for being such a beast. Only a monster could think of a delicate woman in such a way at a time like this. Secondly, his thoughts inevitably drifted to Emina and he felt.. guilt.

Clearing his throat, he averted his gaze from Christine. Christine, however, continued to stare at him.

"Angel," she began.

"Erik, " he reprimanded, a bit too harshly.

Christine did not recoil, instead, she smiled.

"Do you remember the first time you spoke to me? In the chapel, as I lit a candle for my father? I was upset, weeping. You comforted me."

Erik did not respond.

"I think even then some part of me knew that you were not an angel. That you were to be so much more.."

"Christine, eat." Erik repeated, this time in a softer tone.

"Don't you see, An.. Erik? No, perhaps you cannot. I have hurt you too badly. But I see it, finally.."

Erik began to wonder if Christine was still feeling the effects of the drugs they had infused into her system, and he stood. Moving to her side, he lifted the tray from the table and put it before her.

"I was created for you. You for me. We are destined to be together. You found me, you saved me. Erik.."

Erik had previously been avoiding eye contact with Christine, but as she spoke his name in such an endearing tone he could not help but look up at her. Her eyes were filled with love, and clarity. He no longer thought she was drugged. Before him was a woman, confessing her love. His throat tightened.

"Christine.."

"I lov-"

Erik cut her off, purposefully.

"_**Eat."** _He used the low and melodious voice that he knew she would not disobey. Hurt flashed in her pretty eyes before she glanced down toward the food, and then began to eat it.

Erik breathed a sigh of relief. For once in his life he did not have a plan. He did not know to whom his allegiance lay. Should he have accepted Christine's soft words of love? For as long as he could recall he had wanted her, loved her, needed her. Now, when she was ready to be his, he was not sure.

"They know you're missing. Eat, we must leave quickly."

Erik fled the room as though satan himself were on his heels, and as he stepped out into the darkness to take a breath he glanced up to the stars and breathed a silent plea for understanding.

"Emina."

Erik fled the room as though satan himself were on his heels, and as he stepped out into the darkness to take a breath he glanced up to the stars and breathed a silent plea for understanding.

"Emina."

* * *

Raoul had not slept well in days. Despite the letter of assurance he had received from the doctors, he suddenly felt as though sending Christine away at all was simply a terrible idea. In his dreams he could only see her fleeing through the night, as though demons chased her. She would weep and cry out to him. "Why?" she would demand, with blood on her hands. The dreams were horrific, but no worse than the dreams he would have of Emina. As perverse as they were, and Raoul would never admit them to anyone, he would dream of watching her make love to the Phantom. Of all people! The ridiculousness of it disgusted him. In those dreams, however, the Phantom would turn away from Emina in the midst of their coitus and leave her. Alone and weeping. Raoul would go to her, to comfort her, and would soon find himself within her arms.

It was such tormenting dreams that drove him to his study during the middle of the night. He sat staring at a bottle of brandy. Perhaps he had been drinking too much.

"Sir?" a sleepy voice came from behind the door. Raoul glanced up, surprised. He brushed a hand back through his hair, and felt as though the sins of his dreams would be visible to the naked eye.

"Come.. in." He stated hesitantly, and his butler obliged.

"An urgent letter for you, Monsieur."

Raoul paced toward him, and snatched the correspondance from his hands. He ripped it open and had scarcely read the contents before he turned for his coat.

"My horse, now!"

The cruel mistress of fate had reached out her calculated hands and brought another soul into the twisting of her tapestry.


	17. Bloodletting

**I apologize for the long delay in updating this story. Writers block, of a sort. At any rate,I hope you enjoy and please do review. It makes my day.**

(Echo, update for update! Your turn!)

* * *

Pain and darkness were all that Emina could seem to piece together as consciousness forced her mind into a state of awareness. Groans emnated about her, and it took several moments before Emina realized that they were her own pathetic whimpers of pain. Her breathing was labored and raspy, and each inhalation caused a sharp pain within her left side. Surely one of her ribs was broken.

"Ah, awake at last little dove.." came Orlo's familiar voice, though the slur of intoxication was absent.

Emina squinted through her swollen lids, attempting to right the world within her mind. She could scarcely remember his attack, or how she had come to be here.

For that matter, where was she at all? All she could see was the toe of his boot as he roughly nudged her cheek with it.

"Wakey wakey. You're no fun at all when you sleep, little bitch." The voice was a sneer, and Emina fought the desire to shut down. To simply weep in remorse at her own pitiful luck, to curl into a ball and hope for death. She was no longer a child, she had to be strong. To survive, to find her way out of this hell yet again.

Bloodied palms pushed against the stone beneath, in an awkward attempt to sit upwards. She managed to do so, but immediately slumped backwards against a wooden wall. Still her vision swam, but she could see Orlo's figure looming above her in shadow.

"Yes, that's it. It's time to clean yourself up, little dog. You've got tricks to perform later."

Orlo's humor was odd, and in the disarray of her mind, Emina found herself wondering if he sincerely thought he was humorous. A soft, maniacal laugh parted her swollen lips. As if spurred on by the sounds of life emerging from his captive, Orlo knelt to grasp her face roughly in his pudgy hands. With all of the strength she could muster, Emina glowered up at him and spat into his face. Saliva and blood smeared his cheek, and he growled, releasing her long enough to wipe it with the back of his hand.

"Slut," he hissed, and suddenly captured her mouth in a kiss. Emina felt sick as he plunged his tongue into her mouth, gagging against him. He bit at her lip roughly, and with a lust-filled voice whispered his threat into her ear.

"You'll be mine again soon, little girl."

With that, the beast was gone. Emina found herself alone and in darkness. Moments passed before a skittish young girl entered the room. She did not meet Emina's gaze, and instead set a basin of cool water down on the floor beside of her. Carefully she began to tend the wounds.

"What are you doing?" Emina managed, after some time.

"Preparing you," the girl answered.

"Help me," Emina countered, pleading.

The girl seemed to shake, hesitant in her duties.

"I cannot," she replied. Emina pulled away in disdain.

"Please," she managed again.

"It is you, or I." the girl said with a note of finality that silenced Emina. The girl would not trade her own soul and body for that of a stranger, and Emina would not wish it upon her. As the pain began to subside beneath the attentions of the servant, Emina attempted to piece together a plan. Her gaze drifted over her surroundings, trying to ascertain what sort of building she was in at all.

"How long?"

"Two hours." With that, the servant stood, and left, giving Emina precious little information to work with.

* * *

"What do you mean she's gone?" Raoul stammered as a red-faced orderly cowered beneath his glare.

"Gone, Monsieur. We're not sure how. Someone must have come in.. Or... at any rate, she's been gone for nearly a day! Pleasure, Monsieur. They are all out in arms, looking for her. She could not have gotten far in her state..we will find her."

Raoul turned away angrily from the spineless man with no answers. He paced in front of the room that had belonged to his wife, having refused to enter it thus far. He could not see for himself what she had endured. The building that the doctor had described to him was not the building he was in. He had been told of something akin to a vacation in the country, several weeks to clear her mind. Instead this place was cold, clinical, and more like a prison. He did not dare ask what treatments she had been given, because even as he paced he could hear other patients screaming in their misery.

Perhaps some clue lay within her tomb itself? Raoul stopped and stared into the shadowed room, struggling within himself. He had subjected his wife, the woman he was supposed to love and protect, to _this!_ Would he be able to face himself if he seen inside? He had little choice. Whatever it took, he had to find her. Raoul crossed the threshold, and felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The bed was littered with straps, she had obviously been restrained. All sorts of ominous medical devices loomed in the corners, and a bag of blood was suspended on a pole beside of her bed.

"Blood-letting!" he cursed, clawing at his own hair in horror. "Oh God, Christine. Forgive me."

The Vicomte ran from the room, pausing at the desk only long enough to issue orders.

"Contact me immediately if your search comes to any fruition. I will look for her as well."

Bursting into the mid-day sun, Raoul felt like Lazarus emerging from the grave. Such a dismal place, how had he ever relented and allowed Christine to come without even looking into it? Sick with grief and regret, Raoul mounted his horse and spun off toward the main gates. He would find his wife.

* * *

After having eaten once more, and another unplanned nap, Christine had awoken quite lucid. All of the effects of the drugs were seemingly gone, and it was in silence that she mounted their shared horse and allowed Erik to hold her in place atop the saddle. Erik did not speak either, seemingly haunted by his own demons.

"I meant those things," she finally spoke, half an hour later and in a hushed whisper.

"I know," came her angel's familiar tone. "But I do not think you understand. You cannot love all of me, you do not know me. You love your angel, Christine. And rightly so, it is the deception I have woven for you since you were a child. You are the innocent in all of this."

Christine felt a sense of finality in his words that made her uncomfortable. She had to convince him, she must!

"Erik," she said his name awkwardly. It still seemed unusual on her lips. She attempted to turn in the saddle to see him, though his face was hidden in the recesses of his hood.

"You must give me the choice. No one has given me a choice in any of this."

Erik tensed, and Christine could feel it. In many ways they were one, his anger emnating into her very soul.

"I _did_ give you a choice, Christine, if you will recall."

Christine turned back around in a huff, livid. If the matter were not so serious, Erik would have found her temper humorous. He usually did.

"Yes, I recall. And if you will recall, I chose you. And then you sent me away with him!"

"You did not have to g-" Erik caught himself in mid-sentence. "I am not about to argue with you, Christine."

"He will simply send me back," Christine murmured, trying in a different vein to convince him. "You must take me with you, Erik, or all of this will have been in vain."

"I will watch over you, Christine, until you are healthy. And then you will return to your husband. Should he attempt to do the same, then I will consider your bonds with him severed and I will protect you always. Should he choose to keep you. Well, you've already given yourself to him. I cannot stand in the way of God and state," he hissed, his voice laced with more than a little anger. Christine was stunned to silence. Erik would choose to send her to Raoul, even when she was pleading to stay with him. She did not know how to convince him, only that she had hope. As long as she seemed ill, he would care for her. Undoubtedly in his home. That would buy her time.


	18. Dancing Silk

**It has been an unforgivable amount of time since I updated. So much has happened I cannot even go into it. And I will make no promises on future updates either, but I do apologize if this seems short and hope that you all will still review and tell me what you think! Am I getting rusty, already?**

**M**

* * *

Silence had consumed her for what felt like hours. Emina found her limbs so stiff that she could scarcely move, and so she had not. Instead she remained curled pitifully into a ball against the wall. The servant had not returned, and the room she was in was so quiet she felt the lull of sleep pulling at her.

_Warmth was all she could feel of him, but she knew he was there. A smile tugged at her lips and she wiggled a bit to be closer to him._

"_Little wench, what is this hold you have upon me?" _

_His voice was musical and thick with lust, his lips placing a hot and moist kiss upon her bare shoulder._

"_Oh, but Monsieur," she replied playfully as she rolled to her side to look up at him. "It is you who have commanded my every thought for nearly my entire life."_

_His hand had found it's way to her breast, fingertips idly tracing circles about the flesh. The seriousness of her words caused his caresses to halt for a moment, icy gaze peering into hers with wonder. She could see his hesitance to accept her words, and so she lifted her hands to his face. Stroking the marred and mottled flesh with as much affection as his handsome profile, she pursed her lips in a pretty pout and playfully murmured._

"_Make love to me, Erik. We do not know what the future holds, let us make the best of every moment."_

_Her words were light and playful, and he had eagerly relented to her request. Emina had no way of knowing the prophetic nature of her own words. She could not have known that she should treasure every touch, for it would indeed be their very last._

The noise of a boisterous group from below roused her again. How long had she slept there, in that filthy corner? She could not be sure, but Emina could hear hesitant footsteps again approaching her door and assumed it would be the little serving girl.

On cue, the girl entered holding a bundle to her chest. She hesitantly approached Emina and lowered to the ground before her.

"I am to help you dress," she whispered so quietly that Emina had to strain to hear her. Assaulting the girl would surely do no good, and so Emina attempted to right herself. Her gaze fell to the clothing the girl was lifting from the package and revulsion coursed through her.

Instead of the modest Parisian clothing she was now accustomed to, Orlo had ordered that she dress in traditional gypsy garb. To take her humiliation further, these were the nearly sheer, obscenely revealing dancing silks that women would wear to tempt men as they gyrated about a blazing fire.

Anger filled Emina, and she began to protest. The girl became horrified and tears filled her eyes. Finding a sort of compassion for the poor creature, Emina stifled her outrage and helped as much as she could with the donning of said articles of clothing. The girl dabbed a bit of fragrance upon her throat and wrists, and then disappeared.

"He will come for you shortly," were the last words she spoke to the trembling woman left inside the room.

* * *

The wretching had started only hours after they had again started on their journey. Erik had to stop often and help Christine from the horse, allowing her to empty the meager contents of her stomach into the bush. He crouched behind, pulling the soft curls he had longed to touch for most of his life away from her face and the inevitable mess they would find themselves in there.

"Thank you," she muttered feebly after the fourth such episode in a matter of hours. Erik simply nodded, and offered her a small amount of water. Once she was prepared, he again helped her mount and settled in behind her.

"The drugs could certainly have had a nauseating affect," he spoke against her ear.

Christine simply nodded, allowing her head to fall back to rest against his shoulder. The rhythmic sway of the horse was simply too much, and she struggled to maintain her composure so that they would not again have to stop. Although he had not said as much, Christine knew that they had lost a lot of time due to her sudden sickness.

This continued on for much of the day. They had gained very little ground, and as they neared another small village Erik decided something must be done.

"We will seek out a doctor in this town, Christine."

"No! They will know who I am. They will send me back, I will be fine. Please, Erik. We risk too-..."

Erik silenced her with a quiet tsking sound.

"I will take care of it," he assured her softly.

Several hours later, just as night began to fall, Erik had managed to procure the services of a rather greedy doctor who accepted the large sum Erik pushed into his hands and asked little question. He provided a tonic for Christine to aid in the sickness, and they continued on as quietly as they had come. They would reach Paris within hours, and finally be able to rest.

* * *

Raoul rode furiously through the darkness. Though he considered continuing onward, as he was only several hours from home, his entire body ached and he knew he must stop to at least eat. And so he dismounted his horse outside of an Inn, and walked inside. The place was dimly lit and smelled of liquor, and he found himself drawn to the bar. Shiny coins easily earned him a drink and a plate of food, which he was busy consuming.

Several patrons were scattered about the bar, and two of the men at the end were currently engaged in a drinking game. It had obviously gone too far and both men were nearly delirious from the effects of alcohol.

"I seen the damndest thing today, Frank.." one of the men slurred. The other grunted in reply, the cue for the first to continue.

"A beautiful lass, a little pale, but a right sweet ass at least..."

"Wha's so strange about that?" Frank demanded, to which the drunken doctor replied.

"No, no. Tha' wasn' the strange part. Her beau was the odd one out."

Raoul had long since dropped his fork, head turning in the direction of the two men. Surely this could not be?

"An ugly ol' fuck?" Frank questioned, and the thought made him laugh so hard he snorted and Raoul could not hear the doctors reply.

"An' he wore a mask on half of his face. Beats all I've ever seen!"

This was all the confirmation Raoul needed. He stormed the length of the bar and had grasped the lapels of the doctors suit.

"When?" he demanded. "When did you see them?"

The doctor was taken aback and currently trying to pry Raouls fingers from his coat.

"At dusk, headin' for Paris" he finally managed to say. Raoul questioned further, but when he could get no more information of use from the man he stormed out of the Inn. Quickly mounting his horse he set out at a gallop for Paris. That monster would not pry her from his grasp yet again, even if it meant death.

* * *

The city lights were ahead. Christine had long ago falling asleep against him and the warmth that spread through his chest at her nearness was sweet. Erik idly toyed with a single curl that had fallen forward to lay against her bosom. He plucked it from it's rest and wound it about his finger. It was so different from Emina's wild mane. Every tress seemed perfect, and never out of place.

No matter how he tried, Erik found that he could not keep himself from comparing the two. Emina was so very _real_ to him. She had made herself available to him and had not attempted to change a single thing about him. If anything, it seemed that she loved him as much for his deformity as in spite of it! Erik snorted at the thought. His poor, weak little Christine would never be able to stomach the sight of him unmasked. Not the way Emina did. But he had spent a decade of his life grooming the precious woman in his arms, creating a masterpiece of her voice and eventually loving every breath that she took. When offered the chance to claim that love, to accept it's return - how could he deny it? In the very beginning he had made it clear to Emina that he could not love her. She had seemed to accept it quite easily, and they had made love.

Now what was he to do? He had ordered Emina to return to his lair, safe from the wandering hands of the Vicomte. When he returned with Christine in tow, something would have to give. He could not force to two to simply co-exist, both vying for his affections. Erik could not help but smirk at the irony of the situation. Never had he thought he would find love, and now to have to choose - the smirk faded as the reality of the situation dawned upon him. He would have to inflict the same rejection that had always been given to him. The only question was, which angel would he cast from his hell, and which would he keep?


	19. Death

**This chapter was very difficult for me to write. A lot happens in this one, the plot moves very quickly and I will warn you that it's a teeny bit graphic. No major sex scenes or anything, but definitely a bit. This is very sad, because there are only a few more chapters to go!**

**Thank you all for sticking with me through this story. We'll be done soon!**

**Please review.**

**-M**

* * *

All that was left to do was wait. She had little choice in the matter. All the more frightening, she had no plan. She did not know how she would escape this hell that she had been so suddenly and viciously thrust into, or if she even could. All she did know was that she had to try. She had forced herself from the creaking floorboards and began to pace the little room she was in. At first each movemen was so painful she could scarcely breathe, and she felt as though everything was broken all at once. Nearly half an hour later and she had worked some of the ache from her muscles. Nothing seemed to be broken, in reality, and though her flesh was mottled with bruises and scrapes she would certainly survive this assault. The state of mind Emina found herself in was not as hopeful, however. Everytime she closed her eyes she could see the roar of a campfire, the leering faces of men, and the putrid cushions she would find her face buried in. If she managed to clear those thoughts away, she would think then of the man who had called himself her father and the horrible things one should never do to his own daughter. Somehow the ridiculous, diaphonous material that clinged so provocatively to her curves brought back every terrible detail that had been so long submerged in her subconscious, until Emina finally wretched beneath the weight of the burden.

Just as she was righting herself in recovery, the door swung open. Orlo had arrived.

The man smirked, seemingly high on life. Somehow he felt as though all of the bad in his life could easily be corrected now that he had possession of the little gypsy girl again.

"Ah, ready to perform I see.." he murmured, with no lack of lust in his own gaze as he took in her body. In a reaction that was instilled in her, Emina lifted slender arms to cover her chest and lowered her head. Inwardly she screamed at herself for showing such weakness, yet she found herself trembling before him as she had when she was just a child.

Orlo laughed at this and captured a single wrist. Without another word he pulled her from the room and down a narrow corridor. They descended a flight of stairs and he paused to hiss into her ear.

"You will please these men, little pretty. Remember, there are a lot of things worse than death.."

With that she was thrust into a room filled with drunken Parisian men. They all gave a great cheer when she entered, delighted to see the exotic beauty wearing clothing that left little to the imagination. Emina did not move, only stared at the group in horror. Orlo followed her in and with a lewd smack to her behind, settled himself amongst the men. He lifted his hand and music came from nowhere. It was pulsating and erotic, a nameless tune she had heard a thousand times in the gypsy camps. Tears began to pool in her eyes and she knew this would be the end. She did not have the strength to survive this, to be thrust so fully into the weight of her past. Just when she would have collapsed into a heap of tears, something within her snapped.

_No. No!_

She would survive this, she must. This was not who she was now, nor who she had to be. She could control her life, her destiny. She had love to live for now, her precious Erik whom had finally accepted her affections. She could not give up on that so easily. Though her lips trembled, she forced a bit of a smile for the men. They had grown silent in her hesitance but at the gesture they all seemed delighted. Lewd comments about what those lips could be used for went unheard, as she focused upon each man in attendance. There were nearly a dozen of them present, all middle-aged or so with the exception of a few. One boy was quite young in comparison, and he was flushed with awkwardness at the situation. No doubt this was his first such party. The other that did not quite fit the bill was an older man who seemed almost frail. One could easily read the desire in his eyes as he stared back at her, however, and Emina decided that he would be her ticket out of here.

The song began anew at Orlo's command, and so did the gypsy's dance.

----

They had arrived in Paris hours before and it had not taken much effort to concel himself and the slumbering Christine. She had managed to sleep through the entire downward journey into his lair, waking only as he finally settled her upon the bed. He had smiled to her, insisting she rest again, and gone to make her some tea. When he returned, she was waiting for him with a small smile. Her face was pale and she certainly needed to bathe, but Erik felt his breath catch in his throat at her beauty. How had he forgotten how perfect she was, even in her most imperfect moments?

"Tea," he finally stated, his voice raw with emotion. She lifted those tiny, soft hands he had so adored and grasped the offered cup. She patted the side of the bed then, even as she took a calming sip. In silence, he obeyed.

"Thank you, Erik." His angel said softly, to which he inclined his head.

"I promised to always protect you," was his simple reply.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, Christine sipping her tea and watching Erik over the rim of the glass.

"Do you still insist that I return?" She queried in a small voice.

"Yes," he managed after a long silence. "I have not dealt with things in the appropriate manner in the past, and I believe it is time that I learn to behave like a gentleman. You are a married woman, Christine. I cannot...I mean... we cannot..."

Erik stood in frustration, the words he was looking for eluding him. He ran his fingers back through his dark hair and turned away in thought.

"Nothing can happen between us, Christine, until... unless... you are free to be mine. I can no longer accept the scraps beneath the table like a dog. I must have it all, or nothing at all.."

Christine struggled against the tears that filled her gaze. In every word she could feel the pain she had inflicted upon him and a sense of regret washed over her so forcefully she could not speak.

"Finish your tea, cherie. I will leave you to prepare and when you are ready I will take you to the service. Figure out the state of your marriage and then.. well.. you know how to return to me," he muttered softly, before leaving the room.

--

The headstrong part of Raoul insisted he go straight to the Opera and beat down any door necessary to find his wife and correct his grievous mistake. Oh, how the thought of what he had caused Christine to endure tortured him! But he could not think on those things now. Struggling against his desire to storm the phantom's lair again, he instead navigated toward his home. There he would call together the appropriate authorities and approach with many men at his side. This time a single noose would not put his bride in such a position to choose again. Marksmen would kill the foul beast that had tainted their lives with his presence so very much. Thoughts such as these comforted the Vicomte de Chagny as he rode toward their home.

---

Emina found that she had not forgotten at all how to grovel and gyrate before him, to excite them to the point of grabbing at her only to elude their touches with a seductive smirk. This game was the most difficult she had ever had to play, but if Orlo had any consistency about him, she knew how this game would end. When she could dance no more and finally collapsed before their table, the bidding would begin. Orlo would play the devil's advocate and defend her virtue for some time, only upping the stakes. Finally one man would win her as his prize for the night, and her survival depended upon which man that would be.

As she twirled and moved about the room, each man received a measure of personal attention. It would only be a sultry look, the brushing of silk against their eager fingertips, or the light contact of a thigh against their shoulder. She attempted to make it seem as though she favored them all equally, but in truth she all but lavished attention upon the older man, hoping to stir his desire to the point of foolishness in the bidding.

When her already abused body had done all that it could to ensure her safety, she finally did collapse before the table in a heap - sobbing for air with the sheer silk clinging to her moist flesh. The young boy reached out nervously, apparently goaded by his father beside him, and grasped at her breast as she attempted to recover. Inwardly Emina wished to recoil, to slap at his hand and shoot him a glower. Instead she forced a wicked smile to the boy and inched herself upwards until she was kneeling before the table - and out of reach.

Orlo was flushed with excitement, though Emina knew it had more to do with money than with her performance..

"Very good, Emina. You are released."

Emina was familiar with the script. She pretended to pout and then rolled up onto her feet to stand. The men took cue from her expression and began to shout in disdain.

"Calm down, calm down!" Orlo called over the noise.

"Really, can't you see she's exhausted? Poor girl needs to rest.." He continued.

Finally the moment he had been waiting for had come.

"I'll pay for her company," a burly man stated desperately. Orlo lit up, and did not speak until the price had been named. It was a low number. Still he denied the men.

"Really, gentlemen. I must take her well-being into concern first.."

"I will double that," another interjected. The war had begun and within several moments most of the men had decided to withdraw their offers. The only two still vying for her time were the Father and son, and the old man. Emina trembled in anxiety as she watched the scene unfold before her, powerless to impact the end except to give the older gentleman flirtatious smiles when he glanced her way. Finally the younger father had bid an outrageous sum, and Emina watched the older man pale at the number. He leaned back away from the table and fingered his mustache in thought, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of the girl's stomach. She could not overpower two men. If the father and son were to win, her escape would be hopeless.

Finally the older man spoke, doubling the prior bid by half. There were countless remarks about such a beauty being wasted upon such an old man, but he did not look to anyone except the girl whose pleasures he had just purchased. Orlo greedily ended the deal and accepted the coins. He cast one last menacing glance toward Emina before the older man brushed past her. It was unneccesary to say that she should follow. She bowed her head as if in a submissive gesture to Orlo, inwardly cursing him, as she stood and followed.

They navigated the hall to a simple room with only a bed inside. Already the man had seated himself on the bed and began to undress. Emina played the innocent. She blushed and looked away, allowing him to openly stare at her body as she stood before him.

"Oh, Monsieur.." she breathed in a false voice that stirred him from his reverie.

"I've never had a gypsy," he admitted as he reached for her. Emina had to bite upon her tongue to keep herself from being ill as his hands eagerly explored the planes of her stomach and backside. She allowed him this for a long moment, giving him the sensation of control over the situation. When she felt he was enthralled enough, she playfully pushed him back onto the bed and climbed atop his thighs.

"How about a private performance, Monsieur..?" she purred, unwinding one of the silken veils from about her head. He could now reach her breasts, and once his hands were filled with them he seemed willing to entertain any idea she had. She began to gyrate atop him, faking tiny moans and drawing her hands and the silk over his exposed chest. When he trembled with excitement and Emina was sure he would simply expose, she wound the silken scarf about his throat. The gesture was so quick he scarcely noticed until she squeezed so tightly that he could not breathe. Neither could he yell for help. His fingers clawed helplessly at the silk that threatened his life, his booted feet kicking at the floorboards. He could not have known that the sound only caused laughter in the next room, being mistaken for the sounds of pleasure. Emina watched with tears in her eyes as consciousness slowly drained from the man. She paused a moment longer, afraid he would arouse too quickly if she did not, and then removed herself from him. With horror she realized that he was still not breathing. She did not take time to dwell upon this, however. Instead she opened the door to peek into the hall. Orlo had his money, he would care little for her until she returned - undoubtedly to serve the next highest bidder. When she was sure the men were all occupied, she crept into the hall and then into the night.

She was disoriented at first, unable to discern where she was located. She knew she was within Paris for they had not traveled long enough to leave the city. She did not recognize the establishment, however, and simply made in the direction she thought would take her home. To _his_ home.

----

Christine had dressed and was sitting upon a divan by the time Erik returned to the parlor. He had taken the liberty of a bath for himself, soaking a bit too long in the hot waters before rising to dress again. She was lovely, wearing one of the gowns he had created for her so long ago. She smiled at him, though the gesture seemed sad, and the two were preparing to leave when a haunting echo filled the cavern.

"E..erik!"

His head snapped up at the sound of the voice. Had he imagined it? No, Christine was gazing in the same direction with a curious expression on her face. She had heard it as well. Within a moment the sound came again, and this time Erik could place the voice.

"Emina!" He called, causing Christine to pale and lower herself to the divan again. Her angel dashed off through one of the tunnels in the direction of the voice, leaving her alone in his cavern. Before she could pity herself too much, however, he returned with Emina in his arms. Jealousy was aroused in her, and she pursed her lips as she watched him carefully lower her onto the thick persian rug before the fireplace.

"I can walk fine, you brute!" Emina argued as she pushed at Erik's shoulder. Even Christine could see the jest and adoration both in the dark woman who was wearing only.. what exactly was Emina wearing?

Erik seemed to notice the strange garb at the same time and a horrible sense of knowing flashed in his gaze.

"What happened?" He demanded. For the moment Christine had been forgotten and she realized as much. Now Erik was inspecting Emina's face and body for signs of distress, finding all of the bruises and gashes. Christine could not help but stare at Emina as well, but with a feeling of inadequacy. Emina was not as beautiful as she in many ways, she considered. Her features were not as pristine or elegant, and her form was not as slender. But now as Emina sat beside the fire with Erik before her, Christine could see in her a wild and feral beauty that she knew she could never compete with. Emina exuded a sensuality and fire about her that Christine did not contain, and she could read the unabashed love within her gaze as she looked at Erik. The line between compassion and jealousy was crossed, and Christine realized she must be rid of Emina if she could ever win her angel's love again.

"Orlo," Emina answered softly, and Erik seemed to understand what this strange word meant. He cursed aloud, but Emina lifted a hand to placate him.

"No, Erik. Not now."

Christine had never seen Erik so easily subdued.

"How did you escape?" He demanded.

"I.. he..." Emina hesitated. She was still oblivious to the other presence in the room, but found herself humiliated by her actions.

"Do you remember the..dance?" She said as she bit her lip. Erik growled in response and she continued.

"I think I killed him, Erik.. the man who .. won. I only meant to get away, but I was afraid he would come for me and so I held on too long. You taught me how to merely bring about unconsciousness, but I was so afraid, Erik! I did not let go and he..." Emina could not finish. The gasp that filled the room was distinctly female, and it was only then that Emina noticed Christine peering over Erik's shoulder at her.

All of the softness that had been about the gypsy woman hardened immediately, and she made to stand up. Erik, also, was reminded of the awkward position he found himself in and the damnable decision he had to make.

"Erik.. why did you bring her here? Why is she here?" Emina demanded, backing away from the two. Erik wore an apologetic expression as he gazed at her.

"Emina, I.." he was cut off by Christine.

"Erik, why is _she_ here?" She cried, echoing Emina's concerns. "You promised me!"

"Promised what?" Emina countered, leaving Erik feeling very confused by this conversation.

"You love me, angel! And I love you. Will you send me away _again_, when you have promised me?"

Erik turned to Christine, unsure about what promise she was referring to. Apparently discouraged by the look on his face, Christine began to wail.

"She's a gypsy, Erik. A slut, from the looks of her, and now a... **murderer!**"

Unknowingly Christine had made the decision for him. Erik turned to glance again at Emina, and felt emotion swell within his chest. He realized just how similar they were, and how their enitre lives since childhood had somehow been interwoven. Now she stared at him with an understanding that he knew he could never relinquish. When they lay together, void of even his mask, and she could still smile at him with such love in her eyes.. or when he could recognize the pain of taking another's life reflected in her own, and easily commiserate with it.. No. They were too perfect for one another, and even his beloved Christine could never give him that.

"Erik," Christine began to plead again, in her softest voice. "Send her away! Send her away and I will stay with you.."

Emina was aghast at the words coming from Christine, and interrupted.

"How dare you! You little beast! You, who have caused Erik nothing but heartache since the beginning..."

"**ENOUGH!"** Erik roared and they both were silenced for a moment. Erik knew what he must do, but also that he could never manage with both of them in the room. He turned to Emina.

"Give us a moment, please Emina.."

The fire within her had been stoked, however, and Emina would not even entertain the thought of leaving him with that waif.

"Erik, she has hurt you enough - do you not see..?"

"Emina," he countered..

"Stop this madness! Send her back to her precious Vicomte!"

"Emina," he called over her escalating anger.

"That is, if he is not busy with one of the maids.."

Erik had reached the brink of his patience.

"EMINA! Leave us!"

The weight of his words settled within the large cavern, and only he did not realize the deceptive nature of them. Christine began to smile - a triumphant gesture that he could not see because his gaze was on Emina. Emina blanched at his words, finally silenced. She stared into his face in surprise and then tears began to fill her eyes again. She could not move, only gaze at her love as he rejected her for Christine. After a long moment of silence, she stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his full lips. Within a moment she had disappeared into one of the tunnels, and his shoulders slumped in anticipation of the conversation he must now have. Emina would return eventually, he knew her temper. Then he could kiss every wound and give her his promise of protection. For now he had to end this madness with Christine.

When he turned to speak with her, the lady had already settled herself into his boat.

"I am ready to go above, Erik.." Christine said with a small smile. Inwardly she was rejoicing that he had indeed chosen her over Emina. She would find Raoul and tell him how wrong she had been in the beginning, how misguided her actions had been. She would find some grounds upon which to end their marriage and return to her love.

Erik stared at her blankly, wondering if she understood his choice.Christine could sense his hesitance and begrudgingly admitted that ending his relationship with Emina must have been difficult. She extended a hand to him and softly replied, "I understand."

With disbelief Erik entered the small craft and began rowing toward the other side. He could not have known the grave mistake he had just made.


	20. No More Tears

**Sorry for the long delay. Probably only a few chapters left. Review please!**

* * *

When Christine stepped through the doors of her home, the quiet allure it had offered from the street disappeared. A servant passed through the hall before her, and when she had seen Christine the girl began to screech and ran in the direction of the library. This noise alerted others to the disturbance, and within moments a whole slew of the hired help had both entered the room where she stood, and then departed in haste. The whole manor seemed to erupt in a great clamor, and finally in the midst of it all she seen him.

Raoul. Her childhood sweetheart, protector, savior, friend. The man she had sworn before God and man to love and cherish until her death. Now she stood upon the brink of the home they shared, ready to reject it all and return to the bowels of the earth for another man.

Before she could speak, he swept her up into his arms and was sobbing into her hair.

"Oh, Christine. Forgive me, love. Forgive me. Never have I made such a grievous error. I did not know, you must understand. You must believe me. I never would have.."

Here he paused to grasp her shoulders and thrust her away from himself. His gaze roved over her face, searching for any wound or sign of her maltreatment.

"My God, you look terrible. What did they do you to?" His fingers traced the contour of her jaw, and then along the length of her throat - tracing the bruises.

"I will send for a doctor," he stated, and called for a servant to do this even as she protested.

"No, Raoul. Please.."

It was too late. A doctor was being sent for, and Raoul wasn't listening. Again he crushed her to his chest.

"Oh, precious Christine. I am so sorry."

It had not occurred to him to ask how she had managed to find her way home, or how she had escaped the facility at all. He was overcome that she was safe with him once more, and could think of little else.

"Let us get you something to eat, and a warm drink. You're shivering." He finally spoke again, into her hair. He pressed a series of kisses against her face, and then turned her toward the stairs. As he guided her toward her room, he called for a maid to bring fruit and drink after them.

* * *

Erik returned to the cellars as quickly as he could manage, eager to reunite with Emina and learn more about her apparent imprisonment. If Orlo had captured her, then that would mean the fool was still in Paris. If this were so, he _would_ pay for bringing such apparent harm to his love.

His home was as dank and quiet as it had been when he had left it. He searched every room for any trace of her, only to find none.

"Emina!" He called out to her, the echo of his own voice the only reply. Sweat beaded on his brow at his exertion, and when he had satisfied himself that she had not yet returned he moved to the tunnels. It was a massive labyrinth that spanned nearly the length of the entire city, but many of them were unused and forgotten. He trudged through the more familiar passages, in search of his wounded love. He had only intended for her to wait outside while he explained to Christine that was not in love with her. That she should return to her husband, be happy. Live life free from thoughts of him. Move on.

That did not seem to be the way Emina understood it, though, and Erik searched for hours in the dark tunnels before returning to his home to wait for her.

* * *

Misery had never kept better company than at that moment. She lay on a tiny cot in a cramped room that was, thankfully, warm enough. Her entire body was aching, bruised, battered. Fear from her encounter still laced all of her thoughts, and the rejection Erik had wrought upon her was like a bleeding wound in her heart. She felt as though she could scarcely breathe, though her tears had long since been spent. She kept reliving his words again and again, her mind warping them until they consumed every thought.

"Emina! Leave us!" he had said, and the waif behind him had begun to smirk. A look of giddy pleasure had contorted the sopranos features, until she was all but gloating with a single glance. The thought made Emina ill, and she leaned over the edge of her bed to empty the meager contents of her stomach into the wastebasket beside of it. Again. This scenario had repeated itself in an unending fashion since she had stumbled into the quaint rectory as far from the opera house as she could travel in her weak state. There a charitable sister had felt great pity for her, and provided her with this tiny room and a plate of food which was still untouched.

Emina wept and shuddered until she could scarcely move. The kind sister came in several times to offer water to her parched lips, but Emina processed it all in a bit of a daze. A doctor was brought in and her wounds were assessed, but she did not understand any of the hushed whispers that passed between the physician and her caretaker. Trapped within the world of her sorrow the only thing she understood for days to come was the pain that swelled within her breast.

* * *

"You're mistaken, sir..." Christine argued quietly. She lay propped within her luxuriant bed, pillows fluffed and positioned comfortably behind her. She had taken a bath and changed into fresh clothing, and now rest as Raoul had insisted within her bed. He had left her to allow the doctor his examination of her, and even now she could still see his shadow as it passed beneath the doorway.

"I have not.. That is to say.. We were not..." Christine hesitated, and then finished with a blush. "Intimate, in some time." She did not explain why, and felt no need to do so. The older man simply raised his brows and smiled in a condescending fashion.

"Well, Madame de Chagny.. Unless you're trying to convince me that this is an immaculate conception, I will have to say that your memories are failing you. Are your normal courses late?"

Christine lifted a hand to her brow, massaging her temple tiredly. It was difficult to remember such mundane things after the dramatic weeks she had endured. It did seem, though, that she was indeed quite late.

"Yes, I suppose so.." she muttered meekly.

"Ah, well.." the doctor stated with a paternal smile. "See there. It's falling into place already. Shall I tell Monsieur de Chagny?"

"No!" Christine yelped, and then shrank back into the pillows when she realized her response.

Suspicious of her response, he tilted his head aside and frowned a bit. Christine hurried to placate him.

"Such a special time for a husband and wife, that is all. Surely you understand my desire to tell him the good news myself.." she said in a hurried manner, bearing a smile that was not quite convincing. The doctor settled himself on the edge of her bed and reached out to pat her hand. In a soft voice he counseled her.

"You have experienced a lot, Madame, in the last bit. My suggestion to you is to let the past remain in the past. You have a child to think of now, and a very worried husband outside the door. Whatever troubles you could not be of more value than two other lives, could it now?"

Seeing the stricken look upon her face, he continued.

"I am sure, if you take special care of yourself during your pregnancy that is, that all will be well with your child. I will check in on you in a months time. If you need me before this, simply call upon me. I will leave a tonic with your nursemaid for the nausea."

With this the man stood and gathered his supplies. With a slight bow of his head, he exited her room. The door was still ajar, and Christine could hear the exchange between Raoul and the doctor. He did not divulge her great secret, and was soon gone. Raoul rushed to her side, fanning kisses along her knuckles as he knelt beside her bed.

"He says you will be fine, Lotte. He cautioned that you receive plenty of rest, but other than that you will have little lasting effect from... Oh, forgive me, Christine!"

"Please, Raoul. You've apologized enough for a lifetime in the hours that I've returned. Can we not just sit in silence?" She pleaded in her sweetest voice. He seemed disappointed, but nodded nonetheless and was content to sit by her side and stroke the tender inner side of her wrist. Meanwhile Christine closed her eyes and feigned sleep. Her mind was ablur, however, as she tried to remember the last time Raoul had exercised his marital rights. It had been far longer than the opportune window for conception. How was this possible?

And then she remembered. The dreams. She would imagine herself in Erik's arms, as his lover. This was common and not unusual, but now that she thought deeply about it Christine could recall waking one morning from a particularly realistic dream to find her thighs wet. She had assumed it was evidence of her own arousal, but as truth pierced the dream she realized that it had not been a dream at all. While she had imagined the arms of her angel, and his caress - Raoul had exploited her arousal. He had taken her while she dreamt, and never spoke about it. Tears burned her eyes as she considered this.

Had she, in all of her life since the death of her Papa, treated anyone as they deserved? First she had rejected and exposed Erik before all of the world, and now she was unfaithful in her spirit to the husband she chose. Silent sobs caused her to shake, until she could hold them in no more. Raoul took notice and embraced her, sheltering her against his chest. He assumed she was upset by his actions, and she did not correct him. Christine began to weep. For all that had transpired, for her poor decisions, for all of the people she had inflicted pain on. For the child she now carried, and for what she must now do.


	21. The Passage of Time

**Gah, this chapter ripped it out of me. I think I'm delaying the ending of this because it feels so tragic to me. As a matter of fact, I'm toying with the idea of writing an alternate ending after the original ending just to give myself a little peace. You'll have to tell me what you think.**

**At any rate, this is our last chapter! Prologue is next.**

**-M**

* * *

The pudgy flesh beneath his fingers gave as he squeezed tighter, and the disgusting face turned a putrid shade of red, ghastly white, and finally blue. Though he expected to feel release at taking Orlo's life, Erik only felt the same resounding emptiness. It had been a month since Emina had left his grotto, and for weeks his entire effort had been spent upon finding her. When he had not, his anger and turmoil had forced him along the familiar path of blood. He had watched Orlo for days, observing his indulgent acts and abuse to those around him. A younger girl than Emina was trapped within his grasp, and Erik had turned away on more than one occasion in disgust as the drunken oaf had forced himself upon her. The pitiful girl-child would just weep while she was violated, and then lay in a shuddering mess once he had left her. Finally, when Erik could bear no more, he had descended upon Orlo just as he approached the pitiful creature. She had shrieked and cowered into the corner, and now Orlo lay lifeless at his hands. In his mind's eye every bruise that had marred Emina's face, every scratch upon her precious skin came rushing back and though he sought justice by depriving Orlo of life, he found none. Only an enormous, empty chasm where her love had been.

Orlo was a fat man, and as he breathed his last Erik released him. He slumped the length of the wall and fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Erik lifted the abused girl from her place in the shadows and cloaked her with his own cloak. He exited as quietly as he came, carrying her with him. Once they had fallen into the streets below, he promptly deposited her on the steps of a church and left without a word. He heard her voice, strained and battered from all of her screaming and weeping, call out to him but he ignored it. The darkness of night swallowed him, and his quest continued.

* * *

The weather was beginning to warm. It had been two months since that fateful day. Two months since he had spurned her for another. Two months since she had come to stay in the tiny rectory just outside Paris. Emina stood outside now, basking in the warmth of the sunshine as she worked the laundry. The water sloshed onto her feet, but she didn't mind. She had spent her first weeks in this place in bed, refusing to eat or drink. She wept until she became sick, and when her stomach had purged all of it's contents she simply heaved miserably over the can, the stench of her own vomit making her sick all over again.

And then it had happened. Within her body she felt a quickening, a slight flutter of butterflies wings within her belly. It had persisted over several days, and when the doctor visited next he confirmed her suspicions. She was pregnant. A love child, conceived in the few weeks she had spent within Erik's arms. Though part of her thrilled with the knowledge that she would always have a part of him with her, the rest of her mourned for her loss. Not just hers now, though, but their child as well. It would never know what a brilliant father sired it, or how much passion he possessed. This new knowledge had forced her from her bed. The responsibility of carrying a child convinced her to eat again, and drink as well – until she was as healthy as she had ever been. All of her wounds from her time with Orlo had healed well, and now she found herself biding time. Waiting, waiting, waiting.. for her child to be born.

* * *

Four months and three days. Seven hours more. Christine reclined upon the chaise, pretending to be interested in the half-finished lace-work within her hands. It was a beautiful day in midsummer. The sun was brilliant and the whole world rejoiced in it's warmth. The sweet call of birdsong echoed just outside the opened window, and a gentle draft caused the sheer draperies to dance upon the wind.

Though the entire earth seemed jubilant, Christine could not stir the same joys within her, no matter how hard she tried. It had been four months and three days since she had left Erik, promising to return. Still she had not found the courage to return to him and do what she must. She could not bring herself to descend into his world of darkness again, intent upon inflicting the same pain upon him as she had before. But she must...

These thoughts were interrupted as the parlor door burst open. Raoul swept in, his face alight. It seemed the joyous sunshine _was_ a contagion and it had infected her husband thoroughly. He grasped her hands and pulled her up from her perch, the unfinished lace dropped and forgotten in his haste.

"Raoul! What are you-"

Her words were cut off as his lips sought hers, sweet and warm. His kisses were always the most gentle, the most adoring. She returned it numbly, and he laughed against her.

"Isn't it a marvelous morning, my love? The birds are singing, the sun is shining! We should go for a walk.." he said quickly, in a boyish exhuberance. Christine opened her mouth to reply, but before the words could issue forth his expression changed to one of concern and his hands fell to her stomach. It was beginning to protrude now, noticeable even beneath the layers of clothing she wore. Raoul's hands stroked it possessively.

"Or a carriage ride then. Perhaps a walk would be too strenuous.."

"I am fine, Raoul!" Christine interrupted him suddenly, her tone a bit too harsh. She realized her mistake and released a heavy sigh, moving to disentangle herself from the circle of his arms (which had found themselves again around her waist).

Dejection and hurt flashed in his beautiful eyes for a moment, and Christine felt regret. The same regret that she felt each and every day. Somehow she managed to reject her husband, to wound his ego or pride or sensitivities each day without intent. It seemed they would never find that easy rhythm that had once been the keynote of their relationship. In an effort to ease the tension, she forced herself to step closer and lifted a small hand to his cheek.

"Forgive me, husband. I am only fatigued. Perhaps another time?"

Raoul struggled not to scowl as the facade his wife attempted to create crumbled around her. It had taken weeks after her return before the truth had surfaced. He had been furious to learn that the Phantom had been the one to rescue his wife from the torment _he _inflicted upon her. More than anger though, he had felt shamed. In their first encounter Raoul had made it his aim to rescue Christine from the dark schemes of his foe, and without intending to he had turned the tables on himself – providing _Erik_ the opportunity to be the hero. It wasn't this fact that was so difficult to get over, however. It was the fact that Christine was never the same. She was quiet, brooding, and melancholy. He could draw her out of her sorrow long enough to laugh and talk with him freely only rarely, and even then she seemed a bit false.

_Stop! _His mind screamed at her, even as her hand lazily stroked his jawline. _This must end, Christine! You must let him go!_ _He is killing us! _

None of these words were spoken, of course. Raoul was terrified that his grievous error had already caused some undue stress or injury to their unborn child. He had received the news with great joy, but from the first moment could sense the lack of joy in his wife. In every tense moment since, including this one, he deferred to his better judgement and held his tongue. It would not do to upset her and cause any further stress. With a pained sigh, Raoul nodded mildly and pressed chaste kisses to the tips of her fingers.

"I understand, my love. Return to your sewing. It was obvious you were enjoying it so very much."

With the barb of his words hanging in the air, Raoul stepped around her and left her standing alone in the middle of the parlor. Christine sighed sorrowfully, and wrapped her arms about her middle. Raoul deserved a better wife. He deserved a wife who could love him and devote all of her energies to creating their child, to responding to his needs. To be anything and everything that Christine was _not_ to him. As much as Christine wanted to be that for him, she knew she could not. At least not until she buried the past for good.

* * *

Six months. Six bloody, painful months to the day that she had left him. Erik had cursed himself without end for his careless words. He could write poems and sonnets, create amazing music and architecture, but his cursed tongue had formed an ill-thought out sentence that had cursed him to remain in this self-inflicted hell.

Emina was gone. He could not imagine where to, and after six months of doing just that it was easier not to. Every painful and unfortunate thing that could have befallen her ran through his mind again and again, cutting him to the core. When he thought he could stand no more, he began to think of all of the good things that could have happened. Then he would imagine her with another man, happy and free in the sunlight that only scorned him. Those thoughts were just as painful and so he could not win.

He began to wallow in self-misery, drinking until all of the bottles were dry and he could not escape the stupor for days. He would cleanse and dress himself only enough to retrieve more of the balm of alcohol, and then repeat the tortuous process. Eventually this was not enough, and he turned to the familiar kiss of morphine.

It was in such a drug induced state that Christine found him. He was laying disheveled upon the floor just before the cold fireplace. Her face entered his vision and was a bit blurred at first, but as it began to clear he could only laugh. The sound was not amusing or joyous though, just terribly sad.

She touched him, and spoke to him. That voice which could transcend all others. The voice he had lived so many years for, and would have easily died for. That precious, cursed voice. The words were lost upon him. He could only see her glowing, healthy face. Tears were in her eyes, and those ruby lips he had yearned so long for were moving. Why could he not hear her? Was he going deaf? Erik's laughter turned to sobs, and eventually the woman who had once been his angel left him as well. Somehow Erik knew, even through the haze, that this was at last goodbye. He would never see Christine again.

And though he expected that he should feel sorrow at the stunning self-revelation, Erik could only think one thing over and over again.

If only she were Emina. If only he could have seen _Emina_ just one last time..


End file.
